Hello again, y'all. I'm Steve, 33, ex-Recon Marine, ex-indentured gladiator, ex-con. Soon to be ex-free man, ex-slaveowner.

I got my crew through being an indentured gladiator (an indenture's temporary slavery, usually five years). I worked and fought for Jamie and I rescued and rehabbed Darren -- both 23 now, both convicted slaves for life, both ex-gladiators with me, both now mine. I took on Jamie's 18-year-old kid brother, Luke, for a five-year indenture to save him from lifetime slavery for teenage stupidity, like his brother and Darren got. Now I'm a stud construction slave like the guys I own. Just the bosses and overseers wear muscle shirts. Overseers are slaves too. All us other slaves keep the backs and chests available for the overseers' whips. My guys and I are getting punished by wearing just jocks. I'm down, it's kewl, makes us look as buff as we feel. Today and tomorrow I make the change, lose my freedom, get a new life as an ex-free man. But I PROBABLY get to stay with my guys. PROBABLY get to keep my balls.

Y'all might have noticed I'd rather work, train, or play -- hard -- than write. Writing this really hurt, not just to remember it but also because my caned butt, whipped back don't like this hard chair. I'll get more and worse if this don't get written PDQ.



It's Saturday afternoon, the end of my tryout week as a stud construction slave with my guys. At Hardwicke Company. This is harder-ass military than the Recon Marines. You don't flogged and fucked there, don't get worked so well, so thoroughly hard. I love it. Maybe I'm weird. I've always gotten off when I get worked hard, get physically challenged. (Don't necessarily shoot. Don't necessarily get more than half hard.) Love a hard run, hard workout, hard labour, hard gladiator match (I win), hard combat (survived so far). This week I learn my little head gets off when the physical challenge includes flogging and fucking. I always win challenges, which is why we're being punished (Chapter 6 -- Darren challenged me to race up a scaffold).

It's not all one way, though, with me getting flogged, getting fucked. The first day I bullwhipped Mr Hardwicke, the Boss, when I beat him (not that way) at pullups (Monday, Chapter 3). Two days later, I outran him in a 10-km run when he used his quirt to try to burn me out, but it kept me ahead of him. So I bullwhipped him again and fucked him (Chapter 5). Both times I bullwhipped him, he left his shirt off so all his other slaves could see he plays by the rules too. That helped his rep and mine.



When we left off in Chapter 8, Saturday afternoon, I'd had a great, hard morning's work with the Big Dawgs, who initiated me and Darren with canes and dicks yesterday, then got run back to the compound. It's a weird kind of trip, but kewl, wearing slave boots and a jockstrap, getting run down a public road with your buds by a stud dressed like you who snaps a whip to keep you moving.

I stopped at the cell I share with young Luke to check on him. He's a little tender, especially his dick -- last night he got skinned (circumcised) and got his name tattooed on his dick and on the front and back of his left shoulder. Look like a gladiator, like me, Darren, and Jamie. He's my cellmate, like I said. Darren and Jamie are partners and have their own cell.

I can't fuck Luke because he's like my stepson, the kid I protect and try to make into a man. He makes up for me not fucking him. He makes it up to me every morning, when I wake up with his hard young muscles spooned close behind me, his hard young arms wrapped around my hard muscular lats and chest. his hard young hands torturing my balls and tits, and his hard young dick in me.

He used to stroke me off until construction work made his hands too hard for my dick. Now my own hands help me guess how sore his hands must've felt. Okay, my dick's a pussy.

Then he gave me nice blowjobs, right through the night I moved us here and got us all initiated (flogged all to hell, to show us the company means business and to show all its guys we mean business -- Chapter 3). Now I get off every morning while he fucks me and generally tortures my hard ass, muscular body, and overtwisted balls and tits. He feeds me my spunk. Then he strokes and tortures whatever to resurrect my dick so he can ride it until we shoot. Feeds me his spunk. I thought since he can't fuck me today, he'll blow me again. Not so.

He dared me, challenged me, that he could get me off beating my butt with my trainer's tawse. I can't pass up a challenge. I fell for it. Twice. Once lying face down on him, balls to balls, pecs to pecs, dick between his legs. Too sensual. I shot too easy. Then I stood up to get beaten with MY tawse, my tits jackknifed into my quads like I get caned. Blew it again. Luke twisted my balls and tits, fed me my spunk. Too bad he quit before he tortured my dick hard and rode it. That ended Chapter 8.

Didn't end the scene. The second time I shot with my ass getting fried, guys laughed, whistled, and applauded. Darren and Jamie, with our overseer Pete, had slipped into our cell. Every Hardwicke guy, even the bosses, has an embedded RFID chip (like a dog, cat, military rifle, or shipping pallet). Flex the chip, check in and out of a job, open the cell door. So Pete, Darren, and Jamie had flexed into ours -- they're programmed for it. They heard my tawse landing, on me, me growling or howling. I blushed red at both ends.



Pete says the Boss needs to see us all. Now. I need my jock but Luke can keep his off. Use the washroom on the way.

We five walk to the office, Darren and Jamie ahead. I'm back between Luke on my left, Pete in the senior position on my right. Each of them has a hand on my beaten butt. They knead, they explore the basketweave from 44 canecuts the last 48 hours, they explore my crack. My jock tents out as far as Pete's jock, as far as Luke's dick. Theirs might last. Mine won't.

Jon, my lawyer, meets us outside the door. Pete lets go of me and stands back, behind us. Jon wants to know if we're all still down with extending our tryout with Hardwicke Company for the six months. We look at each other. He looks each one of us in the eye. We agree. We don't see nothing better.

The Boss, Mr Hardwicke, calls us to come in (he's wearing an overseer's muscle shirt today). Jon walks in with us. Mr Whitmore, the other Boss and owner, is there too.

My Hardwicke gets up from his deskchair. Grabs me, almost a hug. Swats my butt. Sits me down in his chair. Hard. My butt feels the varnished wood. He says, sit up. them rolls my shoulders so I really feel the wood.

The Boss tells me to watch the monitor.

Jon googles "Steve Masters." Me. On Youtube. Over a million views. A bad video looks like a courtroom. Some out-of-control guy goes weird, swears at the judge, tries to swing at the lawyers. They're all women. They radiate disapproval. They practically spit.

The guy swings at a couple out-of-shape male deputies. Gets tasered. Cuffed hand and foot. Dragged out. He literally kicks and screams, on his own and with the taser.

The guy's me. This was my first trial and conviction.

Another woman's there, looking scared. That's the one I tried to pick up in a bar just off base. I was WAY off base. I scared her. She slapped my face. That surprised me. My Marine reflexes grabbed her wrist. That's daterape now. In court, her wrist showed red where I grabbed it. My face didn't show where she slapped it. Violent, aggravated sexual assault. Sentenced to the cane.

I was too fucking dumb to believe it. Too fucking dumb to shut up. Too fucking dumb just to lose. Too fucking dumb just to let the man win. Which got me hurt WAY worse than I needed to -- 12 canecuts when the sentence was just six.

Next an even worse shot shows the out-of-control guy naked now, fighting the deputies in a punishment room. They tie his wrists and ankles to a bench but leave him room to move, more room to get hurt more. The guy gets 12 canecuts. Takes each one real bad. Pisses himself. Falls tits first into the puddle. I had chest hair then.

My Jamie was one of the kids watching me after they'd all gotten strapped. One of the kids who couldn't believe that a grown man like me could act so fucking stupid. One of the kids who couldn't believe that a grown man like me could take punishment so bad.

This was my punishment for my first conviction.

Jamie's dad gave me a ride back to base. That's how I met Jamie and his dad. That's why I slaved as a gladiator after my gaybashing conviction to earn Jamie, to pay him and his dad back. Why I took on his kid brother, Luke, as my indenture. Maybe his dad trusted me because believed (or hoped) that the gladiator stable had grown me up since that first conviction. I'd tracked him down after my indenture ended, to tell him I was about to get Jamie. Taking Luke was my way to thank Jamie's dad for helping me after my first punishment.



Then Jon links to a Facebook page. "CASTRATE STEVE MASTERS." Me. It has 117,000 "likes." Jon says half of them are in this end of the state. Never mind all the comments, all the Tweets.

Facebook says, "This trained killer violently dateraped a woman. He got a slap on the wrist."

That "slap on the wrist" was the 12 canecuts. It also got me run out of the Marines, my lifelong dream, my 10-year career fighting bad guys in dark places that decent folks never heard of. My profession.

Facebook continues, "Then this violent offender gaybashed a Good Samaritan who tried to help him. Another slap on the wrist -- a soft gig as a gladiator."

The trucker who picked me up when I was hitching away from base pulled over, grabbed my head, shoved it onto his dick. I grabbed his elbow, slugged him in the gut, jumped out. Gaybashing.

That "slap on the wrist" was a fine that would've gotten me enslaved if a lawyer across from the courthouse hadn't found a gladiator stable that would pay the fine (and pay the lawyer who helped me) in exchange for a five-year indenture as a slave gladiator. "Soft gig".

Facebook gets worse: "Just one of this out-of-control trained killer's violent sexual offences should have castrated him to end his crime spree. Just one of these violent sexual offences should have enslaved him for life to keep him under close control. He can't stay out of trouble. Take the next chance to enslave him so he can't get out of control. Meanwhile -- Protect society from him and his kind. At LEAST castrate him so he can't daterape again. Cut his aggression so he can't gaybash again."

The Boss, Mr Hardwicke, wraps his elbow around my neck, jerks me up out of his chair, stands me up, slaps my butt. Looks me hard in the eyes. Turns to Jon.

I'm staggered like he'd gutpunched me. I look at Jon. "Is this real? Can they do this?"

Jon steps over to me, puts his hands on my shoulders, stands me up, raises my head so I see his eyes. "Yes."

I slump. He hugs me. He yanks my balls to stand me up again. Then they drop me back into Mr Hardwicke's chair. Someone hands me a beer. Mr Whitmore, Mr Hardwicke, and Jon sit facing me across the desk. Pete and my three guys stand around me.



Mr Whitmore explains that they elect their judges and prosecutors here. I got arrested during a campaign when MY public defender wanted the prosecutor's job and the prosecutor wanted the judge's.

Jon added that his wife Ann, a criminal lawyer, checked my case. The court couldn't enslave me, couldn't castrate me, because the woman I'd assaulted would have objected. Ann has talked with her. The prosecutor knew she would have spoken up for me. That doesn't make Facebook, doesn't make Youtube.

Back to Mr Whitmore. The Youtube and Facebook started in that campaign but they're viral now, all over. The prosecutor made the Youtube because she got access to the security videos. She's the judge now. The public defender put up the Facebook. She's the prosecutor now. The ex-judge is a partner in the same criminal-defence law firm as Jon's wife, Ann. The castrate-the-men side say she was that way all along.

Fuck! I rub the cold beercan on my forehead. I inhale the beer. It don't make me any dizzzier. Jon steps up behind me, puts his hands on my shoulders. I rub my face and chin on his arm. He holds my chin up so I can look the Bosses in the eyes.

Jon reminds me, over my shoulder, that slavery punishes the guy by taking away his earning power, along with everything else. The owner pays the slave price to get that earning power. Slave labour may extract more value from the guy than he'd put out with free labour. I feel Jon's chest moving as he breathes, vibrating as he talks. The Bosses grin at each other. Their system sure utilizes its slaves' labour to maximize value.

Mr Hardwicke says the courts like to enslave guys because the county sells the guys and keeps the proceeds. Pays better than speed traps. AND the taxpayers don't have to pay for jails. The voters feel safe from violent thugs like me. Safe from nuisance punks like my three guys. The buyers run the jails, control the thugs and punks, work them, pay taxes on the profits.

If they let the punks grow up, most punks would get jobs and pay taxes. The taxes would be worth more than the slave price. But the guys would probably pay the taxes to some other county. And meanwhile the county would have the cost of jailing the punks or of living with them.

Thugs like, Steve, though, it pays to sell. (Jon squeezes a shoulder.)

They're not so keen on castrating guys before they sell them because it lowers their sale price. (Except for the odd boy soprano!) But sex offenders sell at a discount anyway because other slaves don't like to work with them. And sex offenders get hurt more often on the job. And in the barracks.

A danger of castration lowers the price anyway because they can castrate a slave even though someone owns him. This fits the sex-offender discount.

So sometimes they castrate a guy who's already a slave -- which hurts him but mostly his owner -- if they can argue that the owner can't keep the public safe from him.

But they don't mind castrating guys they can't enslave. Like me today!

The same way they can take a slave away from an owner if they can argue the owner doesn't control the slave enough to keep the public safe. Then they sell him to some certifiable maniac who will.

Or sometimes they claim the slave as damages in a lawsuit.



"You've got another problem too," Jon says. "See this?" He reaches across to the computer. It's a trending Tweet with over a hundred thousand followers. "The lawyer for registered sex offender Steve Masters won't divulge his whereabouts. Everyone's in danger. Her office is ... "

Damn! "I'm a registered sex offender? And they're harassing Ann?"

Jon says, "Right. Both times." He squeezes my shoulders.

Jon goes on, "Your first lawyer registered you to Phillips Gladiators." They were REAL quick to register you to Ann -- she was the criminal lawyer who sprung you from Philips. She registered as your defence lawyer. Phillips might have started the tweet because they resented her springing you and taking Jamie"

Mr Whitmore catches my eye, smiles, sort of. "Yeah. You're a registered sex offender. Lots of our guys are. Better buys. We control em just like the other guys. Pete handles the extra paperwork.

"And just about any guy can become a registered sex offender. Y'all're mostly not rapists. Not even flashers. It doesn't take, say, having an underage girlfriend -- that does catch a lot of kids. Just pissing out of doors is indecent exposure -- flashing -- which is a sexual offence. Just a late-night stop in the alley. Every sexual offender is registered -- nobody wants to think one's roaming loose. Which means you register your whereabouts with the police. And which makes it damned near impossible to live anywhere but a closed slave compound like this. Technically the place you and your guys were in qualified only for slaves under constant control. Which you weren't. That's why Ann took the option of registering you at her office on condition that she could produce you within 60 minutes."



This is totally unreal. Nobody talks. Guys cough.

A guy behind me, sounds like Jamie, damn him, snorts "Soprano Steve," tries hard not to crack up. Jamie didn't like me acting like Darren's master to get him to train right (Chapter 1). A Boss's quirt titbites him not all that far from my face.

Jon moves back to the other side of the desk. I miss his hands, his arm by my face. One of my guys rubs my shoulders. A hand moves down to a pec.

Jon stands up, leans over the desk at me, leans on his hands. "You face at least four threats. Not counting getting flogged again. That's the easy one. You face castration, lifetime slavery, getting seized for harsher slavery, and having your guys seized for harsher slavery. There are protections that you won't like."

"Here's the first line of defence." Mr Hardwicke opens another Youtube, "Slave Steve's Greatest Hits." It reprises all the weird, painful stuff from this past week. All live action -- plus some slow-motion shots of the implements and their impact, and of my face and body contorting. Great editing. No face ever shows but mine. No body but mine gets hit. No one yells but me. It shows my neck with its slave chain collar, my sixpack, my big shoulders pecs arms lats abs glutes quads hamstrings calves -- all flexing writhing straining with the impacts and pain.

It opens last weekend, me as a naked sex slave in the payback for fixing Darren's leg at Orthopod Doc's cabin (Chapter 2). Closeup of my caned, naked butt. I get the Friday night orientation bullwhipping in front of the fireplace. The next morning I give blowjobs while my butt gets snaredrummed with a cane to show I'm housebroken, safe to be around. I labour naked, restoring trails, hauling and spreading gravel, accepting orders and random bullwhip lashes. That night three buff young bodies (my slaves) cane and fuck me. Then I'm on the truck tailgate, getting bullwhipped by an avenging black man''s massive arm and shoulders. I suck his dick, lick his pits, rim his hole. My ass and I wrap around his big black dick. Great low-light shots. (Doesn't show me returning the favours; I just gave the tawse, though, not the bullwhip.) Next morning it's back to work till we load the guests out. REALLY

Monday (chapter 3) the quirt and flogger land on me in the Boss's office (after I lost the 10k run -- didn't show me bullwhipping him earlier after a pullup challenge). A quick take shows me getting fucked (the rest of his flog-n-fuck stakes). The video plays up our initiation flogging that night, at least my starring role. Tawse, cane, quirt, flogger, bullwhip. Full action plus closeups and slowmo. I see I did stay hanging in full pullup position while I shot after the bullwhipping, just like my guys said. It flashes closeups of the places when I got hit. (I wince.) Then a dim shot of me running naked in the dark, just ahead of a bullwhip.

Tuesday (Chapter 4) doesn't make the cut except for a couple titbites from a quirt while I brace, flex. Wednesday (Chapter 5) opens with just me (but not my guys) wearing just a jockstrap, standing tall, getting titbit with a quirt, yelling at the man that he needs to whip me so I'll remember what he says, barking "Sir! Yes, Sir!" It closes with shots of me running while a quirt snaps my naked ass.

The pace changes with all 12 of my canecuts Thursday noon on the job (Chapter 6), reprised in slow motion with my facial expressions and body straining, closeup of my abused butt before I stand up. Then me labouring hard under the lash. My muscular arms shoulders back glutes hamstrings straining, flexing while i race up a scaffold.

That night the six titcanes and dozen blacksnakes in the punishment session, preceded by cane quirt tawse all landing to motivate me in pushup and pullup competitions (Chapter 7). Slowmo impacts and face and body reactions too. Friday shows the run to the job wearing slave boots and jockstrap, with my ballbites (quirt bites balls that hang over the jockstrap waistband) behind a billboard on the way. (How'd they get THAT shot? Must have scheduled it.) Me working with the Big Dawgs, then them initiating me by caning, facefucking, and fucking me. The evening gym session with the trainers trying to beat me into beating Pete's size advantage in one-rep lift competitions. This morning the run to the site, then job hauling all the heavy, awkward shit for the fitness room we're building, all with a quirt snapping my glutes pecs back balls. Somebody really worked out his camera placements.

"So. Anybody think Slave Steve's not under harsh control, getting the lash and the labour he deserves? Anybody see him as a threat now?" Mr Hardwicke's proud of his first line of my defence. I wish it hadn't hurt so much to star in it.

It hurt to watch it. Wonder what the guys that got all that shit with me think about the video showing just me. Lots of times, the competitive ones, they got more because I won the challenges. I gotta admit that somebody into that kind of entertainment would say it's well-made. And I do look buff. Wish it had hurt less. Mr Hardwicke says I'll go viral -- friends refer other friends. Like my new Slave Steve Facebook page.



Mr Whitmore asks what differences the guys see between the Youtube trial and punishment video and my Greatest Hits.

My guys say I'm in better shape with a better tan than when I was just a Marine.

Mr Whitmore -- "Any difference in how he acted?"

Jamie -- "He took way more way better. Like he learned to play the game. Let the man hurt you. Don't let the man win."

Luke -- "He didn't fight back the way he did the first time. Like he put all his fight into taking it. Withstanding it."

Pete -- "He looks disciplined." (Snorts from the guys. Smiles from Jon and the Bosses.) "Okay, he looks self-controlled. Not dangerous. Not out of control."

Darren -- "He looks proud. Buff. Proud of his team. Our team. The one he sold himself for us all to join. Proud to take all that shit for us. Makes me proud."

Mr Hardwicke stands up, stretches, braces, leans over in front of me, hands on desk. Smiles. "Y'all think we changed his attitude?"

Pete and my guys snort, laugh, agree, slap me on the pecs, squeeze my shoulders, pinch a tit.

Jon and the Bosses grin, shake hands. Jon says, "Glad it worked so well so quickly."

Mr Hardwicke walks around to my side of the desk. The guys move out of his way. His elbow under my chin stands me up out of the chair. Pulls my back to his chest. He shifts his elbow, grabs my chain, puts his other arm around my sixpack, pulls my tender naked butt onto the tent in his shorts. "We enjoyed it. DELIGHTED to help." Into my ear, "Have a good hell week?" To the guys behind me, "Sorry y'all had to share Steve's extra attitude adjustment on top of y'all's own initiation."


Jon looks sheepish, drops his head, straightens up, spreads his hands, looks me in the eye. "We were afraid for you. Afraid you'd act like the old Steve. You and your guys lived with me and Ann. We saw how hard you tried but it wasn't enough."

Damn! He's right.

Jon walks around behind me, grabs my collar, pulls me onto the tent in his suitpants. "Sorry, man. When the demonstrators started showing up at Ann's office tower and we found the internet shit ..."

Darren laughed. "I hated the week except for watching my Master Steve. That got me through it." The guys laughed, swatted what they could reach around Jon. Squeezed a pec, tit, balls. Ouch!

Pete hands me another beer. Jon says, "Take it easy. You and me are gonna race later." Fuck. I'm wiped from work, from the runs to the job site and back, from Luke, from this session. If Jon wins, he flogs me and fucks me. First time for him for both. I'd rather do him. Fuck my lawyer again. I chug the beer, snort it.



Mr Whitmore says I get a break while they talk about initiations. I can stand up, stretch. He grins, "Remember Marine basic training?"

"Sir! NEVER forget that, Sir!"

He grins again. "So what did they do to you?"

"Sir! They took me apart. Drill instructors swear for hours, never repeat themselves, show you all the ways you're lower than wormshit. Fucking hurt all the time. They built the pieces into a Marine, Sir!."

"Damn straight. What about Recon?"

"Sir! Way tougher, get ready to go fight bad guys I never heard of -- not just straight-up, shoot-em-up fight, but infiltrate, surprise, take the bad guy out, bring the good guy out, get out again. Trained as a team. Recon training was for real, just like this was for real, Sir!"

He looks almost satisfied. "So they showed you that they mean business and you showed them that you mean business. Just like here.

"Someday, over too many beers, Mr Hardwicke and I tell you about being first-week plebes at West Point, about Army officer training, about Airborne. Those sergeants might as well whip the officers, but they don't have to. We'd have hurt less if they had whipped us instead. We just couldn't run this company like military TRAINING. But we do make it military -- where one general can challenge another general to a pushup contest, in front of the troops. Where everybody jumps to obey, everybody knows the job, everybody does the job RIGHT NOW, every guy IS proud and acts proud. .

"You know Mr Whitmore and I, like Pete, like all the overseers -- we all got the same hell week y'all did. But we got a FULL Big Dawgs initiation. You and Darren got just three canecuts from just two guys, Y'all got just one fuck, two facefucks. For us, every Big Dawg caned six, facefucked, and fucked. Pete, tell this pussy punk about YOUR Big Dawgs initiation."

Pete stretched, smiled. "Sir! You hardass bosses still got the pussy version. The Big Dog crew split up for y'all's PAIRS event. Y'all got half the crew each. I was THE GUY for my solo initiation. Each and every Big Dawg caned me six, facefucked me, fucked me. Made two ugly days, especially after the first session waitin for the next one. " He grins at me. Says, "The Boss made me ride you REAL easy last night, too."

Wow! Jon relaxes. A little.

"So," Mr Hardwicke asks me, "Why'd we ride y'all's sorry asses so hard?"

"Sir! To take us apart, Sir! To build proud Hardwicke stud slaves with the pieces, Sir!"

He smiles, slaps my butt, grabs my collar from behind, pulls my glutes over his tent, hugs my pecs and tits with the other arm, BANGS my butt, lets go. "Jon. Your turn."



Now Jon sits in the desk chair, a Boss sitting on either side of him. I stand across the desk from them, try to remember to brace. It helps to to look Jon in the eye. When I can. Darren stands to my left, Pete to my right, each with hands on a glute. I know it's Luke behind me pulling my chain (my slave collar), pulling me into him (and pulling Pete and Darren's knuckles into his pubic bone and lower abs). I know it's Luke because there's no jock over the dick between my glutes. Out of the corner of my eye, Jamie has his arm over Darren's shoulders. Okay ...

"But you're still not a slave and still not castrated," Jon points out. "Let's start with the 'not a slave'." Fuck!

"So long as you're not a slave, you can GET enslaved." I remember how Mr Hardwicke said he could enslave me for ANY breach of contract.

Jon keeps on. "A slave owns nothing. Especially not himself. You lose everything. All control over yourself, over Darren, Jamie, and Luke. They seize your bank account. They sell you, your three guys, even the jeans I bought you, even your combat boots -- AND the county keeps the money. Why the county wants to do this. Y'all could end up anywhere, in any hellhole, not together. Lots of folks would pay lots of cash to get Slave Steve where they want him. But not necessarily castrated."

"You have two convictions now. A third conviction for anything -- parking ticket, spitting on the sidewalk, resisting an officer who stopped you -- anything short of, 'Yes, Sir!' on your knees. Let alone getting bumped by somebody on a sidewalk. For a trained-killer gladiator, that "bump" is assault. ANYTHING is your third strike. You're out. What Facebook meant by 'next opportunity.' You're a slave. Life."

"Your defence against this is actually, legally to be a slave under credible control, but with some safeguards for yourself and your guys." He almost smiles. "Plus your bank account and your combat boots.

"Even that doesn't make you safe unless your slavery looks like 'Slave Steve's Greatest Hits'. But trying to stay 'free' will get you slavery. No say. No controls."

I remembered what Darren said when he and I met Doc to arrange getting Darren's leg rebuilt (Chapter 1). When I didn't want to strip and shoot for Doc, like a slave, Darren asked, "But is anyone really ever free?" Then when I agreed to the naked sex slave thing for a weekend, Darren damned near cried. Knowing Doc had fixed Darren's leg, knowing Darren was back -- that made the weekend worthwhile. Now that's just a happy memory. I might lose him.

So if I want to keep me and my guys as safe as we are here, as safe as we are now, I gotta become a slave. Fuck! Combat didn't scare me this way because Recon prepared me for combat. I can't look at my guys. But I'm real glad I can feel them around me.

"Okay, Jon, I'll become a slave, but whose slave and how? How's it work??"



For the first time, the Bosses, Mr Hardwicke and Mr Whitmore, really smile. They almost relax. They motion for Pete to hand beers around. This time I ask for water too.

Jon smiles too, almost, stands up, spreads his hands.

"First off, YOU OWN YOURSELF, you own your guys, you own your bank account, even your combat boots. You own everything. We'll do everything we can to keep it that way. But it can't LOOK like you're the owner.

"There's a trust with you as beneficiary. It's in the British Virgin Islands, the BVI. Best place for a trust. COMPLETELY confidential. Nobody outside sees anything about companies registered there, let alone trusts. Except what the trust or company wants someone to see. Trusts don't have to report their assets, their income, their ownership. No one knows you own this trust -- and own you. Your trustee in the BVI is a lawyer in a law firm there. They'll set up a Delaware corporation for contracting and other operations, so nobody sees anything offshore. You'll control it through the trust. Delaware's as tight, as confidential as the BVI. All anyone who gets past your contractor and the local slave register will see is a company in Delaware that owns y'all. No one sees Slave Steve as Owner Steve. Slave Steve stays safe.

"BVI's cheaper than the Caymans, farther away, mostly too small to go after, even for billionaire rockstars, third-world bad guys, first-world tax-fiddlers.

"Make sense so far?"

I choke an answer. "Kewl, almost. I get a setup like the bad guys I hunted for the Recon Marines."

Jon smiles his attorney smile. "For a gold coin -- for you, a one-ounce gold Canada Maple Leaf -- you assign yourself and your OTHER slaves, plus your bank account, your combat boots, and everything else you own or may come to own to that trust. It fits the 'you can't own anything.' There's nothing for anybody to seize and sell -- or keep. The trust keeps your gold coin safe for you, too."

He turns serious again. "Assigning yourself, even to your own trust, means accepting slavery. You down with that?

"Oh, and like every slave, every indenture, you're available to the master AND his agents for personal services outside work. Personal services means semiconsensual sex. Like here." He grins. Just for a minute.

I can't shrug. Let alone answer. My guys hold me tighter, squeeze pecs tits butt balls tighter. I melt into the guys enough for Jon to continue.

"Because it's the BVI and because you don't face a criminal life sentence, your trust can get you released from control here, WHEN AND IF it ever gets safe. Then you wouldn't have an overseer. Your trust could set you up in your own home and your own business, say. But you still can't get freed. Never be free on paper.

"Your trust terms will let you apply on any five-year anniversary of becoming a slave, provided it's at least five years after any and all criminal, civil, administrative, or personal threats to you have been cleared. No more Facebook threats. No more castrate-Steve tweets.

"That includes getting you off the sex-offender registry in a way that doesn't let somebody put you back on. So if ALL this bad shit goes away, you can be free to live where and how you want as soon as 10 years from now. Just still on the slave register." Jon stands back, almost relaxes, looks at me.

I almost smile, almost relax too. My balls kinda twinge. How much more can I get hurt than what that video shows, just from this week? And I really would rather live in a real barracks with real testosterone, real guys, real physical challenges, real top shape, than anywhere else, any other way I can imagine. I never imagined being a civilian. I wasn't really comfortable getting my guys worked hard but me just working out. I say so.

I ask, "But what controls? What safeguards?"



Jon's ready for this. "The trust first of all protects your earning power, earning capacity. That protects your body, your energy, your skill, your brainpower, your strength, your flexibility, your health, your appearance, your sexual capacity -- all of you. They can't brand you, can't tattoo you, not without your consent AND mine. You look like a gladiator (name tattoos) but never a branded, number-tattooed slave. Work or discipline can't scar you, and if your skin gets cut or broken it gets closed, gets healed with NO scars. They can't overwork you, can't overflog you, can't overfuck you. Any injury gets treated, gets healed, so you stay 100%.

"By the way, that's why we liked the Hardwicke and Kraus Companies, because they even whip to protect your skin (Chapter 2). Show me the places that've gotten beaten this week."

He's right. Except for the basketweave butt from the cane (43 fucking cuts in 24 hours -- but none in the last 24!) and some red or bruised patches from the cane and blacksnake, I'm clean. I brace, flex, while the guys turn me 360. Bracing and flexing feels REAL good. While Jon runs his hands over me. Fuck! His hands feel REAL good!

"Nice." Jon almost laughs. "Good you got tough hide under that tan."

"The trust itself won't usually run you and the guys. Won't house you, feed you, work you. Won't have its own operations. Through your Delaware corporation, it will contract you out, hire you out, whatever. Like you did here. Never longer than a five-year renewable term unless you agree. We'll work on the structure tomorrow.

"Main point is, everyone has to protect your earning capacity, y'all's earning power. No one can do to any of you what Phillips Gladiators did to Darren (broke his leg, crippled him, threw him away -- Chapter 1). Every contract will include this. Every buyer, renter, or contractor agrees to this or they don't get you."

For sure! A lawyer in the British Virgin Islands (so quiet I never fought there) will protect me. "What if one of us gets hurt anyway?"

"Good question. First, whoever has you, has to fix you up. Best medical care. Like what Orthopod Doc did for Darren. Remember Hardwicke Co has the clinic, the nurse-practitioner, the contract with Doc, contracts with other specialists like him." Jon's ready.

"The trust agreement sets compensation for any injury or impairment, even though you recover. More if they lave a scar or something." He reads the scale, real bucks. "Big enough everyone tells his overseers to keep you clean. Preserve y'all's model looks and model fees. The contract also sets, uh, physical options -- lets you do to him what he did to you."

I'm too backwoods blue-collar redneck just to believe this. "Thanks, Jon. A BVI lawyer's gonna collect from some redneck contractor? A BVI lawyer's gonna let me blacksnake the hide of some redneck overseer? A BVI lawyer's gonna let me punishment-fuck that redneck master? The lawyer punishment-fucks him for me when I can't?"

He has that one too. "Dude! I'm an attorney. I got friends, colleagues, all over. We're the REAL Mafia. We like enforcing these contracts. We like collecting this shit. We like enforcing physical options."

Maybe. "But who gets the payoff when I get hurt?" I want to believe all this but don't see how.

"Dude! YOU get the money. It's your trust for you and your guys. Er, the trust gets the money for its assets. Less 30% for the lawyers if we have to sue to collect. Usually my letter scares the redneck into (1) paying up quick and (2) behaving better, working its guys smarter. And your company will use the money to kiss you and make you well. Or whatever. More likely it will end that contract and find y'all a better gig."

I still don't feel exactly secure. "What if contractor A sells me or us to some random B? Just straight sells us. No protections. No five-year term."

"The trust -- me -- keeps tabs on you. So if you get sold down the river, the trust finds you," Jon answers. "Its lawyers take A and B to court. Gets you back. Then your trust contracts you and your guys to someone better, with the protections, with the five-year term. You get to sign off as agent. You might have found the better contractor."

I shrug. Maybe. I ask, more brightly, "Who runs the trust. Who decides where we go, what contracts we work, what conditions, what pay?"



Jon continues the script. 'Dude! You run the trust. You rent your crew. You're the trust's agent. Same for your corporation. You sign its contracts. What you say goes.

"Subject to my approval."

His approval! There's the catch. Jon's my new master. "So you're my real master?"

I watch him answer carefully. "I'm the real trustee of your trust. Your agreement with me is that I need a good reason, my well-founded best judgment of your interest, y'all's interest, to disagree with you. I tell you my reasons, you tell me your reasons, and we discuss the situation and options. I'll see what I can change to satisfy you, to reassure you. We won't always agree.

"You have safeguards when we disagree. If I want you to do something or not to do something, I can try to persuade you." Lawyer smile. The smile that makes you count your fingers.

"Persuade me? That means the way the Boss persuades me? The way a man 'persuades' a slave?"

"Dude! Sharp today. There's the usual daily limits in the trust agreement and everything your trust or company signs -- total 24 cane or bullwhip, no more than 18 of either unless you request or agree, the first day. Total 18, no more than 12 of either unless you request or agree, the second day. Total 12, any 12, the third day. All three days plus the usual other implements and maybe some appropriate extra work or training or nonwork services..

"Usually your contractor would do that for me. But if it helps, if it matters to help you see the situation, or say you're changing contractors or you don't trust them, I'll take you on. If we still disagree after the third day, that proposition dies, I call in outside counsel for you, and I offer to renegotiate, to see if you and I can find a way to agree. But you agree or it doesn't happen -- though we might go through a couple cycles. The second cycle can start the fourth day, another 24, then another 18, then another 12, plus whatever. You get a break after two cycles -- on the eighth day you rest, that is, you get worked hard at your day job. Then another week of two cycles, max.

Kewl. My trustee, my protector, whips me all to hell, works me all to hell, fucks me all to hell, all to protect me.

Jon tries to explain. "Say in a few years, Darren and Jamie have gotten skills, experience, that makes them worth more to another contractor than to the one that has you. After reviewing it, I recommend selling them. You don't. Maybe you and they think it's a great deal but I don't. Or say Phillips Gladiators wants you back for a year but you don't want to go. Maybe you decide to go and I don't trust them. Maybe you decide your business needs a sports car.

"And once a month, more if necessary, the contractor or I can assert control. That means we show you who's boss, who's property. Maybe initiation like y'all got here." He looks each of me and my guys in the eye. Smiles. "Maybe a persuasion day or three."

"Look," he shrugs, "this conditional slavery can't sound appealing. It's slavery, so it can't be what any guy would choose if he had a choice. Just remember that if you get enslaved and sold, your guys all get sold too, and you have NO say. Anything you try to say will get you hurt. Maybe get you an even worse deal.

"Do you want to talk to another attorney now?"

He's right about me not liking this. My glutes, pecs, and lats REALLY don't like this. It makes my balls ache. But it makes sense. My little head unshrinks a little.

I brace for Jon for the first time. He's Sir now. "Sir! No, Sir! I trust you, Sir! Not some other guy I don't know, who don't know me. Please sign me up, Sir! Thank you, SIR!"

But I gotta ask, "Sir! What if something happens to you, Sir?"

"Well," my trustee answers, the trustee that can whip me, fuck me, sell me, "the partners in my firm would set up your new trustee, subject to your approval."

My approval again. Fuckin ouch!

"Sir! What if you and I REALLY disagree and I want a new trustee?"

Jon looks serious. "I suggest two or three other attorneys to advise you. I'd need to approve the transfer."

"Sir! Could you try to persuade me to keep you or to take a trustee you suggest, Sir?"

"Dude! Damn straight. But you do get another lawyer to advise you. Maybe to help negotiate with me."

Fuck! I'm trust property.

"Sir! Who inherits the trust if something happens to me, Sir?"

"Dude! Good question! The trust's other slaves become its beneficiaries. They inherit it. You can leave instructions -- er -- suggestions, as the agent, how it would go, who'd take over as agent."

"Sir! Who pays for this, Sir?"

Jon really relaxes. He's won. "Good question. You pay for the trust. Out of YOUR bank account. Which becomes the trust's bank account because you don't own anything. You paying shows it's really yours. That shows that somebody else isn't using the trust to hide assets that the county should be able to snag. Same way you pay to set up the corporation. Remember your bank account's already healthier just after this week, with Hardwicke Co paying your guys' wages AND covering your expenses. You'll be making more soon.

"After this setup, your contractors will cover all the legal fees of the contract. Like Hardwicke Co pays me this week. But to maintain your independence, you'll pay for your trust and your corporation. What the contractors pay will cover all your costs and leave you at least a fair wage for y'all''s services -- like your deal with Hardwicke Co."

This hurts, just not financially, but it makes sense. I brace. "Sir! How do I sign up, Sir?"

"That's why Pete's here. Just like Slave Steve can be an agent, Slave Overseer Pete can be a witness. The trust agreement describes all the property transferred, especially you and your guys. You and each of your guys will sign and give a right thumbprint to acknowledge that now the trust owns you, plus your bank account, your combat boots, your tawse, your cane, the jeans I bought you -- everything.

"You'll sign as beneficiary and agent, I'll sign as trustee. Pete signs as a witness who knows all of you. He knows your bank account (he set up the payments into it). He knows your combat boots (he assigned your locker)."

I didn't know I had a locker. I stayed too busy this week to wonder about the boots. But they're just like the ones I wore in the Marines. The first thing I bought for myself after Jon set me and the guys up in that slave barracks.

We all sign. The Bosses clap, cheer, clap butt.

Jon warns us all. "No one outside this room will EVER hear about this. Y'all got that?"

Jon looks each of us five slaves (me, my three guys, Pete) in the eye. "Sir! Yes, Sir!"

Jon moves behind me, pulls my chain, backs my back over his chest, backs my glutes and crack over his tent again, says "Wait'll we race, boy." He feels good. I relax onto him.

"Sir! Yes, Sir!"



Jon keeps my chain. Keeps me. Keeps me REAL close. Keeps his head next to mine to address the room. My lats and traps feel his chest vibrate when he talks. This ain't real.

"That answers the 'slave' question. 'Slave Steve's Greatest Hits' answers the control question. We'll solve the castration question by bringing in other investors. That means not just one owner would lose. That makes it complicated to castrate you. And we'll promote Steve's Stud services." Here Jon pulls my chain again, tents even more. I'm the father of his son-to-be.

Jon thrusts tent, squeezes pecs, lets go, steps aside. Mr Hardwicke walks around the desk to stand behind me. To pull my collar. His favourite way to talk to me, his chest to my back, his tent in my crack. My favourite way too, I'm learning.

"Steve, Boy, you act like you know your way around a slave compound, slave jobsite. At least you know better than you did Thursday morning. (He's talking about when I raced Darren up the scaffold, which got him and me plus Pete, Luke, and Jamie caned on the job -- Chapter 6, then flogged after the gym -- Chapter 7). But you still have to learn manners when you're not directly under the lash. That will protect you from getting taken away from me, which would take your guys away from us both.

"You know two ways to act. You stay strong either way. Your reflex is gladiator, Recon marine, fight back, intimidate just by flexing while you smile. Challenge everyone, challenge everything. Why we like you. That's Strong Fighter.

"You know Strong Fighter. Scare the other guy even if you don't hurt him. Your second way is Strong Slave.

"Strong Slave don't let the man win. Challenge the man with the whip. The man hurts you but don't win. That works REAL well in here. That's why Mr Whitmore and I recruited you.

"But acting strong either way don't work on the street. Strong Slave's too powerful, too smart. The street wants Weak Slave. Strong Slave scares the street. Makes him want to hurt that slave or worse, take him. Weak Slave lets the man win. That makes the street feel good. And you know what the street does if it don't get the weak slave it wants. You saw that on Youtube.

"Got that, hardass?" He's still pulling my chain so I feel his chest on my back through his muscle shirt, feel his tent in the crack of my hard ass.

When I bark, "Sir! I hope so, Sir!" he gives me a little thrust with his tent.

Jon turns me to face him, squeezes my shoulders, looks me in the eyes, sums it up. "Steve, a safe slave who's a scary slave like you is a registered slave, under strict control, and acts like he knows his place so he doesn't scare people outside. He can't even INTEREST people outside."

The Boss barks past my ear, "Darren! Put on that ballcap! You're the redneck homeowner who just caught Pete -- jabs a finger at Pete -- spitting on your lawn. That makes you MAD. Makes you wanna do something to that dumbass boy. Makes you wanna call the Slave Bureau. Get that dumbass boy fixed REAL good. Maybe keep him for a day or two. Get some real work outa him. Get that fuck you ain't got in way too long. That dumbass boy makes you angry. Makes you jealous. Makes you horny.

"Pete! You let THE MAN win. You hand the man the card that says to call ME because I know how to, uh, talk to you."

"Action! y'all."

Darren tries the ballcap bill front, tries the bill up like a hick, tries it back. Checks the mirror by the door. Bill back. Stands real tall. Braces. Breathes deep. Rolls his shoulders. Smiles redneck proud at the mirror. Thrusts the jock pouch while he braces six-pack n glutes. Leans into Pete. Smiles redneck nasty. "Boy, what the fuck you doin, TRESpassin on MAH proppity? Slave Bureau gonna fix you up jest right. Got em on SPEED dahl." He reaches for his phone. Where the phone would be if he wore more than a jockstrap.

Pete slumps, cringes. "Sir! My Master says Slave Bureau charges for house calls -- YOU pay up front. Then THEY decide what happens to me. He says them bureaucrats can take a real long time to get here. Then take too long to correct a boy, Sir! Usually they hand the boy to his master anyway, Sir! Here's my Master's card, Sir! He says he'll come damn quick and set me right, Sir!" Takes a "card" from the waistband of his jockstrap. Hands the card to Darren.

Darren takes the card. Scowls. Dials the palm of his hand. "Y'all Hardwicke Company? I caught y'all's dumbass heah,TRESspassin." He listens to his hand. He spits at Pete, "Boy, your Master's on his way to fix you up REAL good. Says you stand REAL tall for me. For your Master."

"Sir. Thank you, Sir." Pete slumps real bad. Can't bark the exclamation points.

Mr Hardwicke strides in. Company shorts, slave boots like ours. Overseer's muscle shirt. Slaps his thigh with the coiled bullwhip. Pete steps back. Slumps even more. Darren swats his butt to move him towards his Master. Jerks Pete's balls to straighten him up.

"Sir," the Boss addresses Darren, maybe question, maybe exclamation point. Eyes Darren. "Just what has my dumbass boy done, Sir?"

"Y'all's dumbass here disrespected mah proppity. Trespassed. He was s'posed to clean the air-conditioner ducts. Scattered dust n dirt all round. Then he spat on my lawn. I figger he owes me some time to make things right. Needs to learn a lesson."

Bullwhip uncoils. Pete looks from Darren to Boss to bullwhip. Boss says to him real firm, real slow, "Boy! When'd you go all shit-for-brains? You did what this man says you did to his property?"

Pete looks like a whipped puppy -- already. "Yes, Sir. I did, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir." No exclamation points. Head down. Shoulders down.

"Brace, boy! You're about to get REAL sorry." Pete sort of braces. "Hands behind your head, boy!" Pete looks real scared.

Bullwhip bites his tits, left-right, then right-left. It cracked loud but popped above the skin, not on it, so not TOO much forceĀ“in the hits. Pete jerks, howls, slumps. (I don't remember him makin that noise even when me n him n the other guys were getting caned n flogged. Just remember my own. But I WAS distracted.)

Bullwhip wraps around his neck. Bullwhip jerks. Pete unslumps but falls to his knees. "PLEASE, Sir! Please don't bullwhip me no more, Sir!"

Boss asks, "How many times you got me called out lately, boy?"

Pete sniffles, "Two times this week, Sir." Bullwhip bites tits two more times each way.

"Sir," boss asks Darren. What do you figure this-here dumbass needs to do to make things right?"

"Well ... I figger overnight, till noon tomorrow, should let 'im get mah proppity back into shape. I fuck him once, twice, to maybe help him learn some manners." Darren smiles, thusts real redneck.

Boss thinks about this. Looks at dumbass Pete, angry Darren. Both look their parts.

"Well, Sir," Boss says, "I wish I could accommodate you, but this-here dumbass got a job to do. Thank you, Sir, for maybe helpin im to do the next job better."

Darren looks disappointed. "Well, Sir, a man always needs blowjob. That don't take much time."

Boss says, "Yes, Sir!

"Yo, shit-for-brains. Get what you need to make the man's dick feel REAL good."

Boss hands Pete hot lube and a condom. Pete's still on his knees.

Darren shakes his head. "Sir, I ain't wearin none a them pussy rubber thangs. Real mandick needs real boymouth."

As Darren says this, Pete's got Darren's cock and balls out and is rubbing on the lube, real slow, real careful.

Boss shakes his head. "Sir, you REALLY don't want what this boy got. The lube's a disinfectant -- adds protection plus enhances a little."

Darren damn near jumps. "Boy! What shit you put onto me?" Darren slips the condom over Darren's swelling but puzzled prick. Rubs just a little onto the condom to protect his mouth and throat. Grabs Darren's glutes real tight. Teases the dick with his mouth.

Boss answers, "Sir, you're gettin th'enhancement. Wait'll mah boy gets to work. Mind holdin onta his shoulders, Sir?"

Pete works. Works his shoulders for Darren to feel, works his back for Darren to see. Works Darren's glutes. Works Darren's dick. Bullwhip snaps Pete's glutes.

Darren tenses, flexes, damn near throws Pete onto Pete's back. "Wow, Sir. Yore boy does one thang REAL GOOD."

Boss smiles at Darren. Snarls to Pete, "Boy. Lick that man clean. Yore sorry ass ain't ridin in MAH truck. Gather all your gear. Get it and your sorry ass into the truck bed. Put the gear into the boxes. Put your sorry ass into the cage there. Toss your jock outa the cage into the truckbed. Face the street. Stuff your cock and balls through the bars. Grab the top bar. Brace. Wait while I save this man time by runnin his credit card right here."

"Break, y'all," Boss says. "Pete, tell Steve about that time with the roofing tar."

"Sir! Ouch! I patched a lady's roof. She told me how us slaves had ruined her old man's union job. How he took off on her because us slaves ruined him. Says I got black tar on her prize rosebushes. Bushes were black all right -- dried up, dead, bug-et. I gave her the card with the phone number in red. The number that means blacksnake."

Boss takes over. "I had to give poor Pete a dozen shots. Had to draw blood with the last six. She still wasn't satisfied, didn't believe Pete had learned, but I told her we kept the REAL whip in the shop, that it was secret, no civilians.

"Y'all know why we do this?" He glares at me, at Luke, at Jamie, at Darren. We shuffle. "So nobody gets interested in my boy, in me. So nobody comes round to check up, to investigate. So nobody finds out Pete was state-champion heavyweight wrestler, star high-school linebacker, college diploma in building tech -- AND just an indenture. So nobody tries to enslave him. So nobody sues me over him. Maybe they get to feeling just a little sorry they were so chickenshit -- but probably not. Gotta leave them almost satisfied. AND gotta get paid. On the spot. While they're still a little stunned. Even if not so stunned as the boy.


"And for you, HARDASS!" He glares, jabs at me. "So you learn to grovel, sniffle like a slave. So you learn not to scare the folks, the way you did the court, the deputies, the punishment staff. Got that, hardass? Both your heads gotta learn that too."



"Your turn, hardass. Darren!"

Replay. I take Pete's role. Darren stands real tall. Braces. Breathes deep. Rolls his shoulders. Grins evil. Leans into me. "Boy, what the fuck you doin, TRESpassin on MAH proppity? Slave Bureau gonna fix you up jest right. Got em on SPEED dahl." He reaches for his phone (his right buttcheek).

I slump, cringe. "Sir! My Master says Slave Bureau charges for house calls -- you pay up front-- and they decide what happens to me. He says them bureaucrats can take a real long time to get here. Then take a long time to correct a boy, Sir! Here's my Master's card, Sir! He says he'll come damn quick and set me right, Sir!" Take a "card" from the waistband of my jockstrap. Hand the "card" to Darren.

Darren takes the card. Scowls. Reaches into the "back pocket" of his jockstrap (!). Dials the palm of his hand. "Y'all Hardwicke Company? I caught y'all's dumbass here, trespassin." He listens to his palm. He spits at me, "Boy, your Master's on his way to fix you up real good. Says you stand REAL tall for me. For your Master."

"Sir! Thank you, Sir!" I slump real bad.

Mr Hardwicke strides in, slapping his thigh with the coiled bullwhip. I step back. Slump even more. Darren swats my butt to move me towards my Master. Jerks my balls to straighten me up. I wince, cringe, stand a minute, slump again.

"Sir," the Boss addresses Darren, eyes Darren. "Just what has my boy done, Sir?"

"Y'all's dumbass here disrespected mah proppity. TRESpassed. He was s'posed to clean the air-conditioner ducts. Scattered dust n dirt all round. Then he spat on my lawn. I figger he owes me some time to make things right. Needs to learn a lesson."

Bullwhip uncoils. I look from Darren to Boss to bullwhip. Boss says to me real firm, real slow, "Boy! When'd you go all shit-for-brains? You did what this man says you did to his property?"

I try to look like Pete lookin like a whipped puppy -- already. "Yes, Sir. I did, Sir." Not barking the exclamation points. Head down. Shoulders down.

"Brace, boy!" I sort of brace. "Hands behind your head, boy!" I look real scared -- like I feel.

Bullwhip bites my tits, left-right, then right-left. It cracked loud but popped above the skin, not on it, like on Pete. It fuckin lashes where I got titcaned (Chapter 7), where Pete worked me with his flogger (Chapter 8). I'm fuckin hurtin. "Please, Sir. Please no more, Sir." I slump. Bullwhip wraps around my neck. Bullwhip jerks. I unslump but fall to my knees. "Please, Sir! Please don't bullwhip me no more, Sir!"

Boss asks, "How many times you got me called out lately, boy?"

I try to sniffle like Pete. It works WAY too easy. "Two times this week, Sir." Bullwhip bites tits two more times each way. Even pulling the snap, it hurts for real. I howl or something. "Please, Sir. Please don't bullwhip me no more, Sir."

Boss looks at Darren. Says, "Maybe this boy learns better with his other end." Darren looks real interested. Boss smiles at me but his eyes don't smile. "On your lazy feet NOW, Boy!" Bullwhip flicks my jock. I stand but look the way I feel. This ain't no Strong Slave.

Boss tells Darren, "Sir, spread your legs so my boy can put his neck between em." Darren looks real happy. Stands the way the Boss said.

Boss tells me, "Boy. You stand in front of the Man. Spread your legs REAL wide. Put your cock and balls over your jockstrap waistband. Put your neck in the Man's crotch. Hold real tight to his ass." Fuck!

Boss tells Darren, "Sir. Close your legs onto that Boy's neck, so he can't move. It's okay to take your cock n balls out if you feel more comfortable that way -- his neck's goin where they're hangin. You hold real tight to that Boy's waist. Don't let im move. If he does move, you grab his tits instead. Ready, Sir?"

Something reaches under me. Sets my balls on fire. Fuck! The Man's got a slave prod. Jolts me again. I fuckin scream. I must damn near knock Darren off his feet. Prod reaches up. Jolts my cock. I feel Darren shakin, squeezin my neck when he shakes, shakin me with him. Darren's up on his toes, damn near jumps up with my neck. His hands damn near rip my tits off my pecs. He shoots across my back towards the Boss. If Darren didn't have a tight hold, I'd collapse like that Youtube, tits down like I did the first time I got caned. Last jolt to the tender strip under the balls, where the cock starts.

"Ready to let the boy go, Sir? Think he's learnt some manners, or does he need more?"

I feel Darren workin real hard to stand, to keep hold on me, like he's usin me to stay on his feet the way I'm usin him. I feel him try to talk. He croaks, "Well, Sir, I gotta admire your gift for handlin men, Sir. So I reckon he's got enough to learn from. But I sure could use him for a few days."

Boss asks Darren to get me on my feet. Darren wraps his arms around my chest but he's leanin head down, wrong way. So the prod jolts me up ass first. Stands me up alright. Damn near flips Darren. Darren staggers, sorta shuffles up too.

Boss says, "Sir, I'd like to let you keep this boy to get im in shape for me, learn him how to respect a man's proppity, how to respect his cock, but he's booked for another job cross town jes 'bout now."

The Boss says he can let me go now. Darren loosens his thighs but my neck stays between them. I drop to my hands n knees. Prod jolts my butt, once each side.

Boss glares at me. "Boy! Dumbass like you don't ride in mah truck. You get your sorry ass into the the cage in the truck bed. Toss your jock into the bed. Stand facin the street. Wait for me. You got that, boy?"

"Sir! Yes, Sir?"

While I slump away, damn near ooze away, Boss says, "Sir, let me save you some time. I'll jes run your credit card right here, Sir."

Boss says, "Break, y'all. How'd my boy do?"

Whistles. Applause. Boss hugs me from the front this time. When I can talk, I say I thought they didn't use slave prods.

He smiles, with his eyes this time too. "When we auditioned you Monday (Chapter 3), I said me didn't USE slave prods. Didn't say we didn't have em. Keep em for special occasions. Like when I need to hurt you but don't want to mark you up no more. Preserve your appearance. Like when I need to impress the head you think with." Slaps my butt. Squeezes my balls. My cock almost crawls back out from where he hid.

Boss smiles some more. "Boy, you shoot like a teenager, anywhere, any time. Just you imagine the shit that would go down if you just showed hard in a scene like that. You'd be castrated and sold down the river. If you shot like you always do, I'd be castrated and sold down the river with you. Irresponsible, negligent, turns THAT MONSTER loose on the innocent public.

"So we train both your heads. Your little head, your balls, your body muscle memory -- they'll shut down your studly dick, your cocky cock. You probably didn't notice how you showed the shortest, scaredest dick ever."

His smile grows the whole time he's talking. So's his tent. "You got that, Boy? Your two heads smarter now, Boy?"

Damn! I'd smile if I didn't hurt everywhere. "Sir! I sure hope so, Sir!"

Boss smiles some more. "Grab a beer. Hit the washroom. COLD shower. Hold a cold towel on your tits and balls. Pete, Darren, y'all clean up with him. Luke, Jamie, y'all take care of the guys. Get ready for a road trip. Everybody does sunscreen. Everybody but Steve, deodorant. Everybody but Steve, clean jock. Even Luke -- rub a little of the antiseptic hot lube on where it got skinned last night. Don't want you to miss Steve's debut.

"Steve, when you can walk again, haul your sorry ass into the cage in the truck just outside. Stand facing out. Put your cock and balls through the bars. Hold on real good for the ride."

I got too many questions, too much trouble focusin, too much trouble talkin. "Sir! Sir, where we goin? Sir, can I be naked?" I remember how I had to give Jamie my undershorts when I got him from the gladiators.

Darren reminds me how Jamie and I carried him, naked in a cage, when Jon helped us find him in the bargain cell, after the gladiators broke his leg and threw him away.

Mr Hardwicke grabs my collar from behind, tents into me. I almost start to relax. Mr Whitmore steps in front. Mr Whitmore's turn to smile. "Easy, boy. Chill, boy. Darren's right, slave in a cage is naked. Y'all're goin to the slave registry. Get you REGistered. They take your fingerprints, your eyescans. Pete, paperwork's in the truck. It says, 'NO BRAND. NO NUMBER TATTOO.' ANY questions, call me! Protect his earnings as a fitness model. Steve's slave identification number's (SIN's) on the paper AND on his embedded chip. (Fuck! The Boss expected me to do this, had this ready.) There's a certified lab report with his blood type, blood-test results, so they don't draw no blood. Needles might not be clean enough. They'll want to see him shoot, so take a couple quirts, couple tawses.

"Boy! Get yore sore, sorry ass into the cage NOW!"



Weird! I remember every detail of the scene in the boss's office, signing my life away to Jon. But the ride to the slave office is a blur. Okay, I was dazed and buzzed while I rode with my cock and balls waving at the traffic. The slave office is kinda blurred too, like it wasn't real. But it was. This is the life I signed up for.

Pete, Darren, Jamie, and Luke carry me in my cage into a low-rent office that looks something from the Marines, maybe a third-world army. They check the cage at a counter, open it, help me step out, help me stand. Darren (I think) hugs me from behind. Pete clicks a cinch around my balls with a leash on it. Gives me a little smile, a little tug. "You okay to walk?" I kinda nod. We walk. I walk on a fucking leash like a fucking dog. Saturday afternoon looks a little slow here, kinda quiet. Other naked guys wear handcuffs -- straight from court, Pete says when I look at him -- or ball leashes like mine.

One of our guys takes a number. It gets called right away. They shuffle me to a counter. Pete hands over the paperwork. Says it has full, certified lab results. Says, "Boss wants NO BRAND. NO TATTOO. Protect his earnings as a fitness model." Clerk checks papers, nods.

Pete leads me along by my ball-leash. He says I walk so well, they shoulda used this all week. They might keep it. I try not to show hard.

I get prodded, measured, compared with the papers. I reach, bend, stretch, flex, stand on each foot (other foot on calf) with eyes closed, resist a guy trying to move my wrist, arm, leg. Hold a pullup, raise straight legs. Heart rate, pulse score kinda high for me. Surprise! I stick out my tongue and say ah. They check my teeth. They read the slave SIN number on my chip. I get the eyescan, like airports, like the Marines. I give fingerprints.

Clerk (collar like ours) asks, "Y'all sure no brand, no tattoo? It's part of the service. Included in the fee." Pete's sure. THANKS!

Clerk runs through the discipline implements a slave needs to know, gets to know.

"Slave prod?" Check.

"Cane?" Check.

"Flogger?" Check.

"Bullwhip?" Check.

"Strap?" (Fuck -- like what Jamie got that first day I got caned.) "Uh, no."

"Y'all jest relax. The service includes this too. Maybe I can't brand him for y'all, but I can BURN him.

"Slave! Over that bench. Knees on here. Dick straight down. Chest on the pad. Wrists through the cuffs."

They cinch me in -- wrists, thighs like that caning bench, small of my back like they didn't do.

"Just six. It's kewl to yell. Shows me it's workin."

Whistle! Bang! Burn! Chest into pad. The pad where hundreds of guys before me have sweated. The pad where hundreds of guys before me have got real burned real bad. And they do this to kids!

Whistle! Bang! Burn!

Whistle! Bang! Burn!

Whistle! Bang! Burn!

Whistle! Bang! Burn! No idea what that sound is but it comes from me.

Whistle! Bang! Burn!

"Good job, boy. Know you don't want this no more?" He slaps my butt, hard. Squeezes my balls. This time I think I didn't shoot. Didn't even show hard. Don't wonder why.

"Sir! Yes, Sir!"

They release me. Help me climb off. Help me stand.

The clerk says, one last check. Time to show hard. Time to shoot. Luke wakes my little head up by takin it into his mouth. Sweet! About fuckin time, too. Ends too quick.

Pete squirts some hot lube into my hand. Somebody's finger sticks some up my hole. Pete puts the free end of my ball-leash between my teeth. Says, "Stand up!" I straighten. It pulls my balls. They still hurt from the slave prod. One of my guys stands behind, hand in my collar, tent in my crack. Rubs my jaw with his. I start getting hard. Clerk holds a jar in front.

When I don't shoot right away, Pete n Darren take a tawse each, flick my tits. Stand to the front so they don't hit the arms I'm jerkin with. Pecs, tits, get snapped. Hard. It hurts! I'd say 'ouch!' if I could talk with the leash between my teeth. Jamie, behind me, starts pulling my back tight to his chest, my butt tight to his groin and tent, in time with the tawses. Luke rubs my balls quads hamstrings. This feels good. Not like what's happenin in front. With my collar pulled back tight, I can't see where I'm workin my dick. I see the tawses but try to ignore em. Closin my eyes helps.

I couldn't stand if my Jamie didn't hold me up. Don't believe the fuckin climax. Not just shoot. The full-body tantric one again. EVERYthing frags. Toenails to buzzcut. I shake Jamie, the guy holdin me, real good. He shoots into his jock in my crack.

When Clerk can talk, he says, "He passes. We'll check the sperm action. Let y'all's owners know. Y'all're good to go."

Pete don't let me let go of my ball-leash.

Back into my cage. Guys carry it and me back to the truck. I'm WAY too wiped to notice the ride, too buzzed to feel my tackle wavin through the bars at the traffic, at the pedestrians. Guys tell me later that lots of iPhones caught my ride to the registry and my ride from it.



Jon's ready for me when we get back. Says, ballstrap off - give them badboys a break. Says, grab some water. We both freshen up in the slave shower. Cold. No deodorant. Sunscreen. Jock. We're goin OUT. I brace, bark, "Sir! Yes, Sir!"

My trustee and I shower -- looks good, feels good, especially when he washes my tackle, too bad we didn't while me n my guys lived with him n Ann. So, as ordered, I'm clean, sunscreened, not deodorized, wearing a jock, completely wiped. We stop for my slave boots, a pair his size for him, socks. Back in the Boss's office. Pete hands me his quirt. Fuck!

We're gonna race a motivated 10 km like Mr Hardwicke ran with me (Chapter 5). I motivate Jon with the quirt. (He says he's havin trouble, pushin his race pace.) I'll try to burn him out, drive him too fast too soon, like the Boss tried me. The Boss kept me so motivated I stayed ahead all the way. That's how I got to bullwhip him again. Got to fuck him. All what Jon wants to do to me.

I'm wiped from the work and training this week, from the afternoon. I hope I'm wired enough, buzzed enough to last 10 km (6 1/4 miles), to stay with Jon. Never mind finish ahead of him. I ran with Jon a few times when me n my guys stayed there, but we never raced. He was good then, taller n me, longer legs, just not quite the same conditioning. He was free. I'd been a slave gladiator.

We start easy. I let him get used to the quirt on his butt. He straightens up, picks up every time. I hustle him till he breathes real hard, runs a little ragged. I snap him harder. We get faster. I don't know how I even keep moving. I need a man to drive ME. A man to carry me in a wheelbarrow. In a cage.

I remember the Boss when he ran me, how his quirt felt, how I felt. Muscle memory. I snap to. Halfway now. Snap it up. Jon's runnin probably faster than he ever has since college track or the army. He's doin real good for a 40-something free-man desk jockey. One last kilometre. Just an easy uphill. I feel easy now, tall, strong. Jon looks real ragged. Breathes that way. Last 400 metres, the bastard sprints away! Fuck! What worked for me with the Boss, worked for Jon too. It's gonna be a long night. Then I train with Pete, bunk with Pete.

Jon grins, stands easy while I damn near shuffle in. I can almost stand. Back to the Boss's office. Jon grabs the quirt, practises a few titbites. He's a fuckin natural. I almost brace. "Sir! Great race, Sir! OUCH! Sir."

Jon says not to shower. He wants me in my natural, grubby, slave state. Him in his natural, testosterone-high master state. "Sir! Yes, Sir!"

Jon says he's been practising the bullwhip and cane but we'll just stick to the quirt and tawse. Use em creatively. Don't want bullwhip evidence just now. Next time. Gotta preserve my model earning power. Gotta show me to some investors. "Sir! Than you, Sir!"

Jock stays on. Cock and balls outside, on the waistband. Ballcollar back on. (FUCK!) I start with that backbridge, feet hip distance apart, torso level, arms overhead. Hands on floor, fingers point to toes. Warm me up with moderate (!) tawse on tits, just six IF I hold position. Position feels good. Arms shoulders neck back pecs abs glutes legs -- all feel good. First hit makes my tits n pecs feel real bad. With my head back, I don't see Jon. Don't see the tawse. Just hear it, feel it. Remember it too. Try to brace. "Whistle. Snap! Bang!" Skin, muscle report sharp, deep pain before tits. Skin, muscle hurt way deep. Tits burn. I hold position okay. Jon pats my tits, pecs. Pats my balls. Rubs my neck, glutes, quads, calves. "Good boy. Strong boy. Make your trustee REAL proud." I wish I could smile. Five to go.

I focus on my position. Feet planted. Knees. Quads. Hamstrings. Glutes. Core. Abs. Lats. Delts. Arms. Flex pecs up. Brace tits up. Tits! Number two whistles, snaps, bangs. Skin, pecs report sharp, deep pain. Tits don't wanna talk to me. Tits hate me. Four to go.

I almost missed the impacts because I worked so hard not to shake, not to collapse. My arms n shoulders might stay in this position for fuckin ever. Holdin the position got me through the first round. Now I get the round that attacks the cock n collared balls lyin on the jock waistband. Jon squeezes a shoulder,. Feels good because the shoulders hate this position now. Jon works my pecs, works my tits, runs a hand over my sixpack. Runs a hand over my cock n balls. Easy squeezes. Jon says, "Brace, boy. Play ball!"

I hear the quirt whistle. How do you brace balls for sharp impact!?! A voice that don't sound like mine screams, "AH! SIR! OUCH, SIR! YOU'RE TOO DAMN GOOD, SIR!"

Jon walks around to look me in the eyes. The eyes in the face that's bent back in this damn backbridge. "Good boy. Stay strong. Stay Strong Slave."

"Sir! Yes, Sir! Thank you, Sir!" What the fuck am I doing? I'm thanking my attorney, my trustee, the guy I fucked after I impregnated his wife, the man who just made me his slave for life -- I thank this man for hurting me. Okay. He outran me. Don't know how I got to six. Don't know what I screamed in what voice. But I held me position. Jon said, "Relax down."

I dropped onto my butt n back. Jon rubbed my shoulders. Rubbed my quads, my calves. Grabbed an arm to pull me upright. Hugged me. Hugged my pecs n tits. Held my balls. My sweaty attorney's hairy chest felt real good on my sweaty shaved abused chest. Jocks off. His hairy cock n balls felt good on my abused shaved cock n balls. He rubbed my neck under the collar. He patted my butt, squeezed my lats, squeezed my glutes. "These guys next."

"Sir! Yes, Sir!"

Jon stays in charge. "Pushup position. Stretch a minute. Roll your shoulders. Drop onto your elbows. Bridge. Butt n back. Alternating. Slow. Just six each. IF you hold position."

"Sir! Yes, Sir!" At least the position's easy. Tawse bites my butt. Like a gym trainer. Quirt bites my back. Sharper. Like an overseer. Quirt stings more. Both burn when n where they hit. Both burn the muscles under. But I learned the tawse in five years with the gladiator trainers. Learned the quirt in my week with the overseers, with MY Luke, with MY Jamie. Jon's WAY better, though. What'd he practise on? Tawse on butt braces me up. Tightens my core. Quirt on lats flexes back, shoulders. At least this is easier on the arms than the back bridge. Jon's hand, easy on a glute, in my crack, surprises me so much I damn near lose position. Tighten core for the next five pairs. They come REAL slow, like he wants me to break position waitin. I hold it.

"Good Strong Slave." Relax. Stretch into child pose (arms overhead, knees on floor, tits to quads). Feels good. Won't last.

"Sir! Thank you, Sir!"

He helps me stand. For a minute. Hugs me again. Front. Asks how I want to get fucked. "Sir! You're the boss, Sir! How do you want me?"

Washroom. Drink water. Towel over desk. Me on my back on the desk. I hold my ankles again, pull quads to tits, this time not for the cane. The desk where I learned I gotta be Slave Steve. Hot lube. He punches in hard. Pulls out quick. Punches in harder, deeper. Pistons REAL strong. Wraps his surprisingly strong arms around me. Feels surprisingly good on me. Even on my collared balls. Swats my hips without lifting off my back. Knuckles probe my hamstrings, IT bands. His moving body feels real good on my worked, flogged, fucked body. He asks, "Know your place now, Boy? Know who's Boss?"

"Sir! Yes, Sir! You beat me fair n square, Sir! Beat me both ways, Sir!"

When he pistons, his body moves over mine. Damn! We shoot together. I frag, fire everything -- got worked hard enough, flogged hard enough, fucked hard enough -- third time today.

I lick his chest while he holds my abused balls. Just like Luke every morning. He helps me lower my legs to the desk. Smiles. I smile back. "Who's boss, Boy?"

"Sir! You're the boss, Sir! You're the trustee, Sir! I'm proud, Sir!"

He smiles some more. "I'm proud of you, too. You'll make a great agent for Slave Steve n his slaves, boy. I'll enjoy working with you, boy. And training with you. REALLY enjoy persuading you."

"Sir! Thank you, Sir!"

After a beer each, we finish with me on my back on the Boss's sofa, Jon on me, tits to tits, balls to balls. We shoot again. He feeds me his spunk and mine. "Sir! Thank you, Sir!" Another quick cold shower together, this one in the Boss's private washroom.

"See you soon, boy. Pick y'all up at 8 to meet some investors."

"Sir! Thank you, Sir!"


The evening feels quieter, with Pete, almost mellow. Next chapter. Chapter 10.

Tomorrow gets heavier again, but my trust's company becomes a shareholder. With some persuasion and some NICE surprises.

Ward 1 604 842 0780



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