The first thing you notice about young Chase is his tan -not the golden-brown kind that comes from weekends at the beach, but the deep, even bronze of someone who never saw the inside of an office. His skin has the sheen of coconut oil and neglect, stretched tight over lean muscle. He strides like he owns the sidewalk, sandals slapping lazily against the pavement, thumbs hooked into the waistband of his shorts.
Behind him, three collared figures keep pace, their bare feet padding soundlessly over the hot concrete. Their bodies are all function -broad shoulders, thick thighs, the kind of muscle that comes from labor, not gym mirrors. The collars around their throats are polished steel, stamped with Chase's initials. The rest of them is bare except for the chastity cages, glinting dully in the sunlight.
The beach sprawls ahead, crowded with umbrellas and laughter. Chase stops at the edge of the sand, lifting one foot slightly. The nearest slave kneels, unlacing his sandal with quick fingers. The other two move in sync -one peeling off his tank top, the other sliding his shorts down his hips. Chase steps out of them, adjusting his bulge under the red speedo clinging to his thighs. "Cooler under the umbrella," he orders, already walking toward the water.
The sea is a shock of cold against his calves, then thighs, then stomach and chest as he wades in. Behind him, his slaves work fast: unfolding the chair, driving the umbrella pole deep into the sand, arranging towels. By the time Chase emerges, shaking saltwater from his hair, everything is in place. He walks toward the umbrella, dripping, and the slaves snap to attention, shoulders straightening, eyes down, hands behind their backs.
The first two drop to their knees with towels the moment their owner stops walking. Their movements are efficient: one starts at his back, the other at his ankles, drying him in slow strokes. The third slave pops the cap off a Coke and holds the bottle out, condensation dripping onto its wrist. Chase takes it without looking, his other hand resting on the nearest buzzed scalp like it's an armrest.
One of the slaves beneath him braces as Chase settles into the folding chair, its back forming a stable platform for his feet. The other two uncap the sunscreen -one pumping lotion into its palm, the other already rubbing hands together to warm it. Chase tilts the Coke bottle back, throat working as the cold hits his tongue. He exhales through his nose, watching a group of girls giggle over their phones further down the beach. The slaves' hands move in practiced patterns -broad palms smoothing sunscreen down his calves, thumbs working circles into his shoulders.
One of them hesitates near the waistband of his speedo. Chase flicks its ear without looking. "Everywhere," he says, and the slave obeys, fingers slipping under the fabric to coat his hips and groin. The slave at his feet shifts slightly, muscles trembling under the weight of Chase's legs. He digs a heel between its shoulder blades in warning, and it goes still. The Coke is half-finished now, beads of moisture rolling down the glass to wet his fingers.
A shadow falls across him -some guy in board shorts, grinning like he's in on a joke. "Damn, dude. You rent these things or what?" Chase just licks a drop of cola off his bottom lip. "They're mine," he says, flat enough to kill the smile. The guy backs off with a muttered apology. The slaves don't react, hands still moving methodically over their owner's skin. "Sunglasses," Chase says, snapping his fingers once. The slave nearest the cooler moves instantly, plucking the mirrored aviators from the top of the cooler with reverent care. It bends at the waist, adjusting the frames over his ears.
From behind the tinted lenses, Chase spots an older man a few yards from him. Forty, maybe, skin like sun-bleached leather, walking barefoot while his slaves crawl beside him on their knees. Their collars are thicker -old-school iron, not stainless steel- but the chastity cages are the same gleaming silver. The young man watches one of them adjust the umbrella for its master without being told, shoulders flexing under the effort. "Nice stock," the man calls over, nodding at Chase's trio. His voice is gravel wrapped in silk. "Spartan imports?"
Chase lifts his chin slightly. "Two Spartans, one Corinthian." He doesn't offer more. The man grins, showing teeth too white for someone who clearly smokes. "Corinthians," he muses, running a hand over the closest slave's buzzcut. "Good for endurance. Mine are all Spartans -had to break the spines in, but worth it." Chase sips the last of his Coke, eyes flicking to the oldest slave, its knuckles scarred from what looks like years of kneeling on rough terrain. "You work them hard," he observes.
The man shrugs. "House, garden, gym. Had the big one trained for deepthroat by a pro -cost extra, but fuck if it doesn't take it like a vacuum now." He snaps his fingers, and the largest slave crawls forward, throat bobbing above its collar. Chase's own slaves don't react, but he feels the one under his feet tense minutely. "Mine do rotations," Chase says, tipping the bottle toward them. "Two for labor, one for bed. Swap weekly." He doesn't mention the whipping closet back home, or the way the Corinthian screams into its gag when he uses the paddle.
The older man nods approvingly. "Smart. Let 'em atrophy and they're just expensive pets." He nudges one of his slaves with a foot, making it flex its biceps on command. Veins pop like cables under sun-darkened skin. Chase's second slave -the Spartan with the crooked nose- automatically mirrors the pose, muscles rolling under its own sweat-slicked back. He doesn't praise it. "Protein shakes," he says instead. "Twice daily, same time. Miss a dose and they lose dinner."
The man laughs, a dry rasp that turns heads nearby. "Bullshit. Mine bench-press their own body weight before breakfast." Chase leans back, sunglasses hiding his eyes. "Yours look slow," he says, voice casual. "Too much bulk, not enough snap."
The man's grin widens. He snaps his fingers, and his biggest slave crawls forward, shoulders rolling like a draft horse's. "Put your money where your mouth is." He jerks his chin toward Chase's slaves. "Pick one. Sand wrestling. First to tap loses." A few sunbathers edge closer, towels draped over their shoulders, phones forgotten. Chase hesitates, scratches the Corinthian's scalp absently, then nods toward the slave with the crooked nose. It stands instantly, fists clenched at its sides.
The two slaves circle each other, bare feet sinking into hot sand. The first grapple is brutal -Chase's slave ducks low, driving its shoulder into the other's ribs, fingers locking around its waist. They go down hard, limbs tangling, sand flying. The bigger slave tries to roll them, but Chase's hooks a leg around its thigh, wrenching sideways. Hands grope for leverage gripping a calf, clamping around a bicep, grappling under the arms. A woman gasps, clutching her margarita. Two guys murmur bets under their breath.
Chase's slave gains the upper position, straddling the other's hips, sweat dripping onto its opponent's chest. It pins the wrists, grinding down, the chastity cage pressing hard just bellow the loser's navel. The crowd shifts. Somewhere, two kids get yanked away by their mother. The pinned slave bucks, muscles straining, but Chase's leans forward, biting its shoulder hard enough to leave crescent marks. The defeated slave finally taps the sand three times, chest heaving. Chase doesn't smile, just lifts his second Coke in a mock toast.
The man claps once, sharp. "Fair play," he says, and kicks his defeated slave's hips. "Up. Fetch drinks. Two coconuts, chilled." The slave scrambles to its feet, sand clinging to its knees, and lumbers off toward the nearest concession stand. Chase's victorious slave returns to its place beside the chair, standing at attention, breathing still uneven. The man extends a hand; Chase shakes it, grip firm. "Name's Vance," the man says. "You've got a good eye."
They stroll toward Chase's umbrella. "Twenty-odd years owning slaves," Vance says, lighting a cigarette with a gold lighter. "Never seen any moving that fast." Chase shrugs. "Training's everything." Vance exhales smoke, considering the slave with the crooked nose. "How much?" he asks abruptly. Chase pauses mid-sip. "Not for sale." Vance laughs. "Everything's for sale."
He pulls out his phone. "Twenty grand," he says, thumb hovering over his wallet app. Chase scoffs. "That wouldn't cover its meals for a year." The slave stands motionless, sweat drying in the hollow of its throat. Vance tilts his head. "Twenty-five." Chase rubs his thumb over the slave's collar. Its breathing doesn't change. "Twenty-eight," he counters, "Or walk."
Vance snorts, and taps twice. The transfer chimes. Chase grips the slave's chin, turning its face toward him one last time. "You belong to him now." The slave blinks once -its only tell- before dropping to its knees in front of its new owner. The man pats its head like a dog, cigarette bobbing between his lips. "Go," he says, jerking his chin toward his other slaves. It crawls away without looking back, sand sticking to its damp skin.
Chase and Vance shake hands again, and the young man snaps his fingers twice, sharp. His two remaining slaves move like machinery -one retrieving his clothes, the other dismantling the umbrella with quick twists of its wrists. He stands still, letting his slave dress him: tank top tugged over his shoulders, shorts slid up his thighs, sandals buckled. The cooler clicks shut, towels folded tight. Chase pockets his phone, sunglasses dangling from his neck now.
The walk to the parking lot is quiet. His slaves follow at a respectful distance, arms full of gear, heads bowed. Chase chews the inside of his cheek, mentally scrolling through auction listings. There's a shipment of fresh stock arriving next week from the Balkan facilities. Twenty-eight grand will snag him two young males, seventeen or eighteen, still soft around the edges but trainable. He'll break them slowly: protein shakes at dawn, the whipping closet by noon, house chores in the afternoon, his bed by night. After a couple of years, they'll move like the one he just sold -maybe better.
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