DUPED
Chapter 6
"Processed into Slavery"
This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years
Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): December 2012 Read all my stories at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories
The characters and events in this story are purely fictitious and belong to the writer's imagination. Please respect the integrity of the story and don't do any rewrites, make alterations or add pictures."
Note: I'm sure we'd all agree that Nifty provides a wonderful service to both writers and readers. And it's free!
But even a free service incurs some costs and if you'd like to show your appreciation for the pleasure you get from reading the many stories in Nifty's archives, you might consider making a donation to help with the group's operating costs.
http://donate.nifty.org/donate html
Chapter 6: "Processed into Slavery"
Anwar and Malik waste little time in processing me into my new slavery.
Malik instructs the two guards who hold me between them in a vicelike grip to take me to the preparation room. I am seized by blind panic as I struggle to free myself. I beg Anwar to set me free but he is deaf to my pleas and if anything, my pitiful entreaties amuse him; he laughs loudly at my predicament. I dig my toes into the deep pile of the carpet trying to find a firm toehold as I strain back from my captors. As I wrestle with them, I see Miguel standing silently to one side watching the events of my enslavement unfolding before him.
Obviously he finds the scene arousing; his hard erection pokes out at an elevated angle from his heaving belly. In sharp contrast, my own erection has dissipated and I am left with a limp-dick while all thoughts of fucking Miguel have long gone and they have been replaced by my growing panic.
I wonder what he is thinking. Does he see a parallel between what is happening to me and his own enslavement twelve months ago? He'd said he'd been betrayed by an Arab "friend" much as Anwar has now betrayed me. Surely he would understand the fear and panic I feel?
Desperately, I look around the room for a sign of sympathy - no matter how small - but everywhere I am met with cold, hostile responses from the Arabs. Only Miguel shows any sign of compassion; I see sorrow for my plight in his troubled eyes. I am surprised by this as I remember that Miguel has his own problems. Like me, he is to be sold on Saturday.
The overseers haul me - literally - from the viewing-room out across the viewing salon and through a door into the inner regions of Malik's slave-market. We move from the luxury of the previous rooms into a drab area devoid of any colour and I find myself being bundled down a long passage- way towards a door at the far end.
I look to see if Anwar is following. I hope he is as I'm sure if I appeal to his better judgement he'll see this is all a dreadful mistake and order my release. But he's not following and there's no sign of Anwar, Malik or Mustapha. Only Hussein accompanies the overseers and I'm not to know that the three older Arabs have retired to an inner courtyard to partake of refreshments while I am prepared for their inspection. Hussein has volunteered to oversee my transformation from a free man into a slave.
Hussein opens the door and stands back to give the overseers elbow space to wrestle me through the doorway and into a small room of sinister appearance. Terrified, I look around the room desperately searching for some means of improbable escape. However, there isn't any and my eyes focus on the room and its contents.
Unlike the previous rooms I'd been in, the walls here are unadorned and are made of solid, unpainted stone blocks whose drab greyness matches the bare, stone floor. The walls and the floor are covered with dark stains and I wonder about these. Fearfully, I wonder if they are bloodstains. I'm not to know they were made by the fear-induced voiding of the bladders and bowels of countless, hapless slaves who have been "processed" in this room.
Spaced strategically around the room are several timber benches and trestles whose sinister uses I can only guess at. Attached to them are chains and leather straps and it doesn't require much imagination to know they are used to restrain some helpless victim as his captors work on making his body ready for slavery.
On the walls are racks of implements that make my blood run cold. I can only guess at their cruel uses and they remind me of the mediaeval torture chambers you see on tours of ancient, European castles or in some B-grade horror movie.
The overseers hustle me into the middle of the room and force me to my knees. I look around wildly, wondering what is to happen next. Hussein and the two overseers talk in Arabic and there is much laughter. Even though they ignore me, I know instinctively their conversation is about me and I sense their gloating at my fate.
Suddenly, I am overwhelmed and break into wild sobbing and pleading. I fall onto all fours and crawl to Hussein and plead with him.
"Please Hussein, please! Help me, please? I thought we were friends. Why is this happening to me?"
Hussein places his right foot against my ass and uses it to propel me forward onto my nose.
"Silence; how dare you speak without permission! You thought we were friends? Slave, it was presumptuous of you to ever think that we could be friends." Hussein's tone is full of his contempt for me. "We were never friends and we never could be. How arrogant you Occidentals are to think that the Arab devalues himself to such an extent that he'd be your friend and fawn over you. I could never be friends with a Franj slave." He sneers. "NEVER!"
An overseer roughly grabs my shoulders and forces me into a kneeling position and then he towers over me. I feel threatened by his nearness and to my horror; I see that he has armed himself with a long, flexible cane. I shiver from the anticipation that it will inevitably be used on me.
How many times in my moments of wild, erotic fantasies have I imagined a Master using his cane to both command and to discipline me? Then I'd shivered uncontrollably with the pleasurable pain of my vivid imagination and always my responsive cock had grown harder ensuring me of a most satisfactory ejaculation. But they'd been mere flights of fantasy and not the real thing. Now, as I see the overseer swish the cane through the air and hear its sibilant hiss, I understand this isn't an erotic dream and that I am now living my past dreams for real. Terrified, I kneel as the overseer shouts at me.
"STAY ON YOUR KNEES, BOY! DO IT NOW!"
Wild-eyed, I look around me to see what the other overseer is doing. I see him walking towards me carrying a pair of shears similar to those used by farmers to hand shear their sheep and a smaller pair of barber's clippers. Am I to have my hair cropped?
Even though I know there'll be little discomfort in having my hair cut, I nevertheless face the loss of my hair with dread. I have a head of thick, unruly hair with a blond fringe that hang down over my forehead - I have been told this give me a boyish look - and I am extremely proud of it; in fact my pride in my hair borders on vanity. I've always lavished great care on my hair and haven't spared any expense in keeping it looking good. Now I'm to lose it and in doing so, I'll also lose my identity as a free man.
From now on I'll wear a slave's shameful short crop and my head will be indistinguishable from that of all other slaves. I am now to truly join them in their uniform appearance and share in their naked anonymity.
The overseer wastes no time in shearing me. He roughly grabs my hair and begins to hack it off - lock by lock - with his shears. He has little regard for my feelings and strand by strand, he tugs it away from my scalp and cuts. I hear the gentle snip of the shears and I feel my hair gently falling down over my shoulders to the ground. The hair of which I'm so proud now lies on the ground around me and with it is the bitter realisation that never again will it be allowed to grow it so long. My crowning glory is no more.
If it was possible for me to see my head, I would be dismayed at the ragged, uneven cut of the shears. But the overseer isn't finished with me yet. He pushes my head forward and runs his clippers over my scalp from the nape of my neck to my front hairline and I'm left with a hair cover of about half an inch. The room's air is cool on my shorn scalp and my head feels strangely denuded. The overseer steps back and slowly circles around me as he surveys his handiwork. Not completely satisfied, he again runs the clippers over my scalp until he is sure that the remaining hair is of uniform length.
Hussein crosses the room to where I'm kneeling and inspects me by running his hands over my cropped head. I consider his actions are even more humiliating than the actual cutting off of my hair and my sense of shame is magnified by his comments to the overseers.
"It's an excellent job! It's a very good cut and it suits him. Now he looks just the same as all the other Franj slaves in the holding-pens except for his body hair."
"Well, he's about to lose it too! That's the next task to perform on him before he is presented to his Master!"
They speak in English and I know they do so to taunt me; this mention of "before he is presented to his Master" impresses upon me that I am now a slave. Is it only thirty minutes or less since I was enslaved? How can my life have changed irrevocably in that short time-span; I have gone from a proud, professional, free man to being Anwar's abject slave.
Once more the two overseers haul me to my feet and drag over to a long, wooden bench. One takes hold of my upper body under my armpits and the other grabs my feet. Then, struggling in their firm grasp, I am lifted bodily and thrown down on the bench's surface with such force that I am temporarily winded. The bench top feels cold and smooth on my back and ass; I'm not to know that its surface has been worn smooth by the futile struggling and darkened by the body oil - and worse - of all those new slaves who have been processed before me.
Hussein steps forward to assist the two overseers. As one holds my feet in a vicelike grip the other stretches my arms over my head and holds them steady as Hussein tightens leather restraints around my wrists. Next, he moves to my feet and as my legs are pulled apart as far as it is anatomically possible he shackles my ankles. I am immobilized and spreadeagled ready for body shaving.
Hussein stands over me and looks down disdainfully on my prone body. Instinctively, I struggle in my bonds. My body heaves as I arch my back and pull back on the arm and leg restraints holding me to the bench-top. Hussein reaches down and ruffles my chest hair and maliciously tweaks my sensitive nipples. He laughs at my yelp of outraged discomfort.
The touch of his hands makes me struggle that much harder. He uses a finger to trace over the treasure trial that connect s the hair on my chest to my pubes. He pauses long enough to insert a fingertip into the deep indent of my navel as he explores its depths. Next, I feel his hands move in between my thighs as he examines my balls. I arch my back in a futile attempt to escape this new assault on my dignity but he persists. Fearful of injury, I give up the uneven struggle and lie passively as my balls are rolled between his fingers, gently squeezed and "weighed" in his cupped hand.
He turns his attention to my tumescent cock which flops on my heaving belly. I feel him stretch it upwards away from my body as a test of its length. I feel his finger mercilessly teasing my piss-slit and despite my best efforts my cock betrays me and I feel the first stirrings of an impending erection. Hussein lightly runs his fingers up and down the sensitive underside of my penis and his exquisite torture quickly brings me to full arousal. I can't see the small, pearl of my precum gleaming at my piss-slit but I am aware of it. Hussein speaks to me.
"Slave, it's indeed fortunate for you that you are circumcised. You're to be spared the knife."
This is an aspect I'd not thought about. Although, I do recall Anwar once telling me that all uncircumcised, male slaves routinely have their foreskins removed. I remember the rationale he'd given for this cruel practice. It appears that Arabs prefer their male slaves to be "clean-skins" as a visible sign of their servitude.
Fortunately, for me, I'd been a victim of infant circumcision; a decision made by my parents and one which, from time to time, I'd deeply resented. Many times, as I progressed through puberty, I looked enviously at the uncircumcised cocks of my companions; somehow the retention of their prepuces marked them as manlier than me in my eyes. I'd often felt cheated that my foreskin had been taken from me and yet, today, I am very grateful that my parents had made that choice shortly after my birth.
Hussein moves to my head and examines my eyes and ears. Next, he orders me to open my mouth as he wants to inspect my teeth. I'm feeling rebellious and refuse to obey. He pinches my nostrils together and forces me to breathe through my mouth. As I gasp, I have learned my first lesson in obedience. I understand that a slave is powerless in the in the hands of a determined master.
As Hussein inspects me, the two overseers stand and wait until he's finished. Once he is finished, they are ready to begin the messy task of removing all my body hair and to make me "slave smooth" for my Master, Anwar.
Each is equipped with hair clippers and scissors and as one begins at my head the second starts at my feet. Nervously, I raise my head to watch what is being done to me. I watch as the overseer working at the top of the bench uses his clippers to shorten the hair on my chest and armpits. At the same time, the second overseer uses his scissors to cut back my pubic hair as close to the skin as possible. No time is waisted in preparing me for their razors and with a few short minutes my body hair has been reduced to prickly stubble.
Once the clipping of my hair is finished, buckets of cold water are thrown over me until I am drenched and shivering and not altogether from the shock of the cold water. By now my emotions are raw and my fear is increasing by the minute and these, more than the cold water, make me tremble. Both overseers are holding spray cans of shaving cream - of the type one buys at the supermarket - which they use to liberally coat my torso and limbs. Once the foam has coated my body they begin to shave me.
They use the old style cutthroat razor of the type used by barbers. Fearing the worst, I lie perfectly still as the razors glide whisper-quiet over my skin. Nevertheless, I do squirm as my armpits are shaved; I have always been super sensitive in that area and it takes all my willpower not to wriggle.
I feel the other razor removing my treasure-trail and my pubes. Tears fill my eyes as I suffer the humiliation at the loss of so obvious a sign of my manhood. I'd always been inordinately proud of my golden pubes which matched the blond hair on my chest and head and I'd always kept them neat and trimmed. Now I am losing them completely as a shameful badge of my new slave status and I feel fingers expertly manoeuvring my cock and balls out of harm's way as the razor does it efficient work.
Both overseers work quickly; obviously they are deft hands at preparing a slave's body for presentation to either his master or a prospective buyer. Within minutes my torso is hairless and now they switch their attention to my limbs which are released from their bonds and quickly shaved.
I'm still lying on the flat of my back and one overseer now takes hold of my ankles and pulls my legs back over my shoulders to elevate my buttocks and expose my ass-crack to the razor. Once more Hussein moves over to the bench to examine me. I feel his hands hefting and weighing my balls before he checks my scrotum for any residual hairs left by the razor. Obviously, the overseer has done a good job for he comments on the "silky smoothness of my ball-sac."
With my ass elevated and my ass-crack stretched wide open, I'm shamefully aware that my anus is exposed to Hussein's view. I can feel the strain on my sphincter as it pulses in time with my anxious heart-beats. Starting at my balls, he traces a finger along my perineum and continues down through the valley between my ass-cheeks to my anus. There he uses the finger to excite me.
At first it's a gentle tickling followed by the prodding of his finger as he pokes at the entrance to my "Golden Portal". He notes my quivering response and smiles at my embarrassed blushing and tells me that.
"You have a sensitive ass, slave! That's good! It will be a good selling point. The buyers always appreciate an asshole that responds positively to the touch of a finger."
Obviously, Hussein is determined to go further! I gasp audibly as his fingers thrusts through my sphincter and into my rectum. He'd not bothered to lubricate me and his initial entry is painful. I squirm uncomfortably as his finger seeks out my prostate. Eventually, he finds my pleasure nub and at the first touch, I begin to "buck" uncontrollably. Hussein laughs and using his free hand, he playfully slaps my ass and tells me.
"Steady, boy! Lie still!"
Nevertheless, he continues to use his finger to excite me. Soon, my discomfort gives way to waves of pleasure that envelop my body. At first, the finger slowly works my hole before Hussein quickens the tempo of his finger-fucking. I am helpless under his ministrations and soon I give way to the enjoyment of the moment. I hear my soft pleasurable moans and I feel the involuntary working of my anal muscles as they grip Hussein's finger in a milking action. Momentarily, my fear is forgotten and my anxiety dissipates. I am living for the moment and my cock responds in the only way that it knows. I am massively aroused and my balls are withdrawn into my tightened scrotum. They ache for release and I feel the first warnings of an impending ejaculation as my cock spurts out my precum which dribbles threadlike down onto my scrunched up belly and chest.
Then the finger is rudely withdrawn and I am left with a strange feeling of emptiness. Hussein has taken me to the brink and left me suspended between unfulfilled desire and frustration. I need to ejaculate but slowly my erection begins to wilt. By way of explanation, Hussein tells me.
"Calm down, boy! Let's save it for your Master!"
He steps away from me and watches as an overseer shaves the valley between my buttocks. My nervousness returns and I hold my breath as the razor glides effortlessly over my ass-cheeks denuding them of the soft golden down that covers them. I feel the second overseer spread those same ass-cheeks and hold them apart as the razor removes the hair from within my ass-cleft. I feel the razor's close proximity to my ass-hole and apprehensively I stop breathing as it whisks away the odd stray hair that grows there. Suddenly, the overseer declares.
"He's finished!"
And I relax and begin to breathe again.
My body is given one final inspection for any stray, residual hairs but it's testimony to the overseers' expertise that none are found and I am ordered to clamber down from the bench.
An overseer leads me to an open shower; I am ordered under it, handed a bar of perfumed soap and told to wash myself thoroughly. I'm unprepared for the icy blast of the cold water that rains down on me; momentarily, the cold takes my breath away and involuntarily I back away from the shower.
An overseer noisily slaps my ass several times and orders me back under the shower. I hasten to obey and begin to wash myself. As I soap my body, I catch glimpses of my new appearance. I see the hairless state of my chest and belly and I am shocked by the absence of my pubes. My groin is now hairless and my genitals suddenly appear "out of proportion" to what I remembered them to me. Without their nest of pubic hair, my balls appear bigger and heavier and they seem to hang lower while my cock appears longer and thicker than usual. Of course, I tell myself this isn't so and that it's all and optical illusion. I am reminded of Sven's and Miguel's appearances and I realize I now share in their slave smoothness.
After several minutes, I'm ordered out of the shower, given a towel and ordered to dry my body. As I do so, I see Hussein hovering nearby with a leather collar and chains. When I am dry, he shackles my wrists behind my back and fastens the collar around my neck.
He leads me over to a full-length mirror and positions me in front of it and commands me to look at myself. I'm shocked at the image looking back at me; it is almost unrecognizable to the person I was just one hour ago. The long, unruly hair on my head - once my pride and joy -is closely cropped and my torso and limbs are now hairless. The body I see reflected back at me is that of a new slave. As I look at my transformation, I am surprised at how much I have changed. The absence of my body hair displays my musculature more prominently and the glabrous state of my body makes me appear more youthful. Rather than being twenty-five, I now have the appearance of a much younger youth of eighteen or nineteen.
Hussein compliments me.
"You're looking good boy! You now look like the slave you were always meant to be. Now it's time to present you to your Master."
Hussein clips a leather leash to my collar and I'm suddenly aware that, despite my nudity, I now wear the accoutrements of the slave - a neck collar and leash and wrist restraints. Hussein tugs at my leash as an indication I am to follow behind him. He leads me out of the room then along the corridor and back into the residential part of the building. As I walk, I'm very conscious of my nakedness and there is a new sensation of freedom as my hairless ass cheeks glide sensually against one another. Whilst it is a strange sensation it is, however, not unpleasing.
Hussein takes me into a courtyard where, my Master, Anwar and Mustapha sit with their host Malik under the shade of an orange tree. They are sipping on sherbets and nibbling on plump, black figs and dates. Attending them are two male slaves; one is Miguel who now wears a loincloth and one other white slave also wearing an identical loin-cover.
As we enter, the three Arabs cease their conversation and look in my direction. Hussein leads me to where the three are sitting, unfastens my wrists and commands me to kneel with my nose to the pavement. My nerves are fraught and I am fearful of these men who have enslaved me. I recall Anwar's punishment of Sven on the night when he'd taken me to his home for the first time and I know that my new Master is a very stern one. I have no wish to anger him - or the other Arabs - and so I acquiesce to Hussein's order to kneel and I drop to my knees and press my face to the ground.
I'm very conscious that my head is so much lower than my elevated ass and that it's shamefully on display. My humiliation washes over me and colours me scarlet. Suddenly, Hussein shouts out a new instruction.
"Spread your knees boy! The first lesson you must learn as a slave is to always adopt the proper position of respect whenever you are in your Master's presence. Now press your nose to the ground and place the palms of your hands face down on the ground and level with your face. DO IT!"
The impatient tone of Hussein's voice warns me to obey - instantly - and I do as he has instructed. But he still hasn't finished with me and shouts a further command.
"Spread your knees apart as far as possible so that your balls are hanging down and your asshole is fully displayed. Remember slave, this position is mandatory and failure to comply will see your Master severely punish you."
Hussein's present attitude is in sharp contrast to the recent friendship he'd feigned for me. I recall those times when I'd thought I was his equal - although on reflection I now see he'd never considered me as his equal - and his friendship had been a cruel charade meant to put me at my ease and to make it easier to entice me into slavery. Suddenly, I am very afraid of him and I cringe before the onslaught of his commandments to me.
Apparently, I've not pleased Hussein. Hussein uses his foot to spread my thighs even further apart than I thought was possible. I feel the strain as my thighs are stretched to their limits and I feel the opening up of my ass-hole to public scrutiny. He is now happy with my position and speaks to Anwar.
"Anwar, allow me to present your new slave to you!"
Then he tells me to.
"Crawl on your hands and knees to your Master and kiss his feet in homage, slave!"
As I crawl to my Master's feet, Hussein toes my ass and tells me.
"Move your lazy ass, boy! When you're given an order, you move quickly. NOW MOVE YOURSELF!"
I'm overcome with emotion and I'm confused by all that is happening to me. In the face of Hussein's anger, I hastily scramble the short distance to Anwar's feet and kiss them. As a do so, my body is wracked by a great sob and as my tears fall they darken his shoes.
My new Master speaks to me for the first time as his slave.
"Kneel slave and face me! Place your hands on top of your head and lower your eyes to the ground."
I do as he has commanded and even though I can't see his face, I know instinctively that he is visually appraising me. His next words confirm that this is so.
"Thank you, Hussein! You have done well in preparing my new slave for me. I'm absolutely delighted with him. How much better he looks as a naked slave than the arrogant young Franj lawyer he was just one hour ago. Did he cause you any trouble?"
"No, he gave us no trouble at all, Anwar! He was most docile and co-operative. I think he'll be the most obedient of slaves and please his Master. And I agree with you. I think he looks good."
"Indeed he will. Hussein! It is in his nature to be a true slave. He once told me this is so - a fact he recognized early in his life. Isn't that so, Matt? You have always craved to be a true slave to the Arabs?"
How do I answer that? It's true that my slave nature fed my erotic fantasies and transported me into many realms of imaginary slavery all of which seemed real. But they were fanciful dreams divorced from reality. What is happening to me isn't a dream; it has all the hallmarks of a dreadful nightmare and one without a happy ending. Still Anwar has asked me a question and I must answer. Shyly, I whisper.
"Yes!"
I meant no disrespect with the brevity of my answer but my voice was too choked up with my emotion for me to form a longer reply. But my Master didn't see it that way. Angrily, he leaned forward in his chair and slapped my face with such force that I was knocked off-balance. As I regained my kneeling position, he admonished me.
"Slave, show more respect! When you answer me you will call me 'Master'. And you will address all other Arabs as 'Master'. You will address non-Arabs as 'Sir'. And you always reply to a question in a loud, clear tone of voice. Do you understand me?"
"YES MASTER!"
"Now that's better! I'll ask you once more. You have always craved to be a true slave to the Arabs. Is that not so, slave?"
"Yes, Master!"
"Well then Matt, your wish has been granted you. You are now a slave to an Arab Master and after Saturday's auction you'll have a new Arab Master."
"That's by no means guaranteed, Anwar." Malik interjects. "It's highly possible that the slave will have a Black African Master rather than an Arab one. I expect that he will be eagerly fought over in a bidding war. Tomorrow, I have scheduled a private viewing of him with a billionaire oil magnate from West Africa. He has been searching for just such a white slave as this one and I spoke to him about your slave. He is most excited and looking forward to having a test-run with the slave tomorrow."
"Indeed, Malik! With that level of interest, I suppose I can look forward to a good return on my investment in this slave?"
"Anwar, my friend! I expect your slave to sell well. There's always great interest in an educated white slave. Many masters like to break them of their old lives and turn them into obedient, docile and unthinking slaves. I think given his background, your new slave will engender much interest. And surely you jest Anwar, when you speak of your investment in this slave? He came to you free of cost, did he not?"
"That's not completely true, Malik. I did spend money in cultivating his friendship. There were all the dinners at Mustapha's restaurant, nights out to the theatre, the many gifts and the weekend tips to Paris and Vienna and of course the cost of bringing him here to Maluchistan on a first-class flight and the cost of his five-star hotel accommodation."
"Phstt! They are mere incidental expenses and they'll be returned to you a thousandfold on Saturday. Anwar, I know you will be present to see your slave sold. When will you return to London?"
"I'm scheduled to fly back on Monday, Malik."
"Then tell us, Anwar?" Mustapha asks. "How will you explain your return home without Matt being with you?"
"That's quite easy, Mustapha. I will simply explain that Matt liked the Middle-East so much that he extended his stay here to explore the more remote regions of Maluchistan. Why, I have even purchased an onward flight for him and I have arranged for someone to journey in his place and to use his travel documents. For the record, he'll of course set out on his 'adventure' and simply disappear. As you know, he won't be the first Westerner to vanish in the desert sands and the inevitable, tiresome enquires will be made about his disappearance. However, as you know, these always prove fruitless. Back in London, no blame will be attached to me and I will be left to lament the loss of such a good friend and a promising, young, business associate."
"Anwar, you are a sly, old fox! You are as wily as ever!"
All four Arabs laugh loudly at my fate. Anwar's cunning plan ensures that I am simply to disappear from the face of the earth into the maws of an anonymous slavery. Without doubt, my friends and business associates in London will wonder about my sudden disappearance and speculate about my fate. Eventually, they'll accept the inevitable and conclude that I am dead. Why, in my mind's eye, I can even see them gathering in our favourite "watering-hole" in London and downing a few beers in my honour. They'll raise their glasses and drink a toast to "good, old Matt, wherever he may be."
This news is devastating and I see the true hopelessness of my situation. I am lost and there'll be no redemption for me. I have been duped and betrayed. Anwar has seduced me with his friendship - and he was aided and abetted in this by Mustapha and his son Hussein - and I silently curse all three of them for their cruel betrayal of my trust. I damn all three of them to perdition.
"Hussein, I have one final favour to ask of you to perform on my slave."
"Anwar, how can I help?"
"Would you kindly remove the leather collar from around Matt's neck and replace it with this metal one that Malik has so graciously given to me?"
"It would be my pleasure, Anwar."
Hussein removes the leather collar from around my neck and briefly I am free of its constriction. But my freedom is short-lived and Hussein quickly fastens the heavy, metal collar around my throat. As he snaps the lock shut, I shiver from the realization that a slave's collar is the one article I am condemned to wear perpetually for the remainder of my days despite my body's total nakedness. The collar feels heavy around my neck but it weighs far heavier on my soul.
"SLAVE, STAND UP! GET UPON YOUR FEET AND ASSUME THE DISPLAY POSITION!"
I'm quick to obey Anwar's sudden, shouted instructions and scramble to my feet but the display position proves too difficult for me. I have seen Sven stand in that position many times; it is after all the mandatory position for a slave to adopt in his Master's presence and he maintains it until he is either ordered to "stand at rest" or to assume another position.
Thinking back to Sven, I know what is required of me but it proves harder to put into practice. Nevertheless, I make a genuine effort to comply - or so I think - and draw my body rigidly to attention, move my feet apart and entwine my fingers behind my bowed head. My efforts however, aren't good enough. Hussein takes charge once more and he angrily kicks my ankles further apart and he only confuses me with his abusive tirade.
"Anwar, your slave shows an inability to learn and is slow to respond to an order."
"Then teach him, Hussein! Malik, do you have a cane handy that Hussein can borrow to use on my slave."
"Of course I do, Anwar!" Miguel, fetch my cane for Master Hussein."
Miguel hastens away to do his Master's bidding and returns within a few minutes carrying a thin, rattan cane. He falls to his knees before Hussein and holds the cane in both hands at arms' length in a manner of supplication.
I look on in apprehension knowing that I am to feel the bite of the cane on my body for the first time. I recall watching as Sven was caned by his Master and I am under no illusions as to its effectiveness or the pain it causes. I shiver in dread anticipation.
Miguel's kneeling position and his outstretched arms serve to highlight his superb body. Once more, his musculature is brought into sharp relief and the loincloth he wears adds to his allure. Of course, I'm aware of what it conceals; I'd been so close to fucking him when I'd been rudely torn from him. Momentarily, I relive that moment of frustration. I'd been so near and yet so far.
I brace myself for the first cut of the cane. I hold my breath and wait. Then, Malik intervenes on my behalf and cautions Hussein.
"Hussein, wield the cane with great caution! Take care not to damage the slave. Remember he goes on display tomorrow and we don't want any deep marking of his body. The buyers are quite happy to accept superficial stripes on a slave. Indeed, a striped ass adds to their appeal. But any deep bruising or possible permanent damage isn't acceptable to a potential buyer."
"It will be as you wish, Malik! I will hold back in my use of the cane on the slave and no damage will be done to him."
Hussein walks behind me and I hear the whine of his cane. I cry out in pain as it cuts across my buttocks.
"Stand erect". Pull your shoulders back. Thrust your chest out and suck your belly in. There Anwar, your slave awaits your inspection!"
Each of these commands is re-enforced with a further cut of the cane and weeping, I hasten to do his bidding. I have had my first lesson in slave deportment. It is a hard lesson but aided by Hussein and his cane it is one I quickly learned. From now on, I won't have any difficulty in assuming the correct stance in front of my Master who rises from his chair and inspects me.
Anwar stands before me with just inches separating us while Malik and Mustapha lean forward in their seats to watch as their friend examines his new slave. They run the tips of their tongues lasciviously over their lips as Anwar reaches out and placed his hands on my chest. His touch electrifies me. How many times since I have known Anwar have I longed to feel his touch? I have lost count of the number of times when I'd secretly hoped for sex with Anwar. It had been a source of disappointment to me that Anwar had never shown any sexual interest in me despite the fact that we are both gay. I'd always supposed that Sven had satisfied all of Anwar's sexual needs and I'd envied the slave his Master.
Now Anwar's hands are on my naked body but this isn't how I'd hoped it would be. I'd always thought of sex with him as being between two equals. Instead, it is as Master and slave. Despite the fact that I am now his slave, I stand quivering at Anwar's touch like an unbroken, nervous colt being handled for the first time. His fingers trace down over my heaving chest to my nipples. As he playfully tweaks them, sparks of pure pleasure surge through my body causing my heart to beat faster.
His hands roam down over my belly - pausing long enough for him to insert a finger into my deep navel - and then to continue down to my now hairless groin. He hefts my balls in a cupped hand as though he is weighing them in the balance. Next, he toys with my cock and at the first touch, I am mightily aroused. He delicately runs a finger along the underside of my shaft awakening the myriad of nerve ends causing them to suddenly spring to life. He teases my piss-slit milking it for its copious precum which he uses to lubricate his finger. Suddenly, he orders me to.
"Turn with your back to me slave! Now bend and spread!"
I obey and using that same lubricated finger, my Master enters me. I gasp as his finger pushes past the last line of my defence. I am no match for Anwar's determination and my sphincter relaxes to give him easy entrance through my "golden portal". Slowly, he uses the thrusting finger to excite me and as he does so, my balls withdraw back into my scrotum and, if it is possible, my cock grows even harder. My anal muscles grip the invading finger and with each contraction, I hear the sound of my soft, appreciative moaning and I surrender to the pleasures of the moment.
I'm aware that Miguel and the other slave are watching intently. No doubt, as slaves, they have experienced similar situations. I see Mustapha and Malik are watching as well - I hear their lewd comments in the background - and I'm vaguely aware that Hussein is hovering nearby.
Briefly, time stands still until Anwar withdraws his finger and dismissively slaps my ass and orders me to.
"Stand and face the front!"
Mustapha is the first to speak.
"Tell me old friend. Does the slave have a tight-ass?"
"Indeed he does, Mustapha, indeed he does! The slave has a most delightfully, tight ass with a very firm grip and I am most anxious to sample it further. Malik, can I prevail on you for another favour? Do I have your permission to use one of your viewing-rooms where I can sample the delights of my new slave's body?"
"Anwar, my old friend! My home is your home. You are most welcome to use one of viewing-rooms. Why don't we have Hussein take your slave - what's his name again.......?"
"Matt! The slave's name is Matt!"
"Ah yes, that's it, Matt. Why not ask Hussein to take slave Matt back to the test-room and prepare him for you while we share another sherbet and talk about the arrangements for his sale?"
I listen in disbelief! Events are moving so quickly that my mind is finding it difficult to process all that is happening to me. Less than two hours ago, I was free and I'd entered these premises as a guest of Anwar ostensibly to view a real slave-market, its associated holding-pens and their unfortunate occupants. I have been cruelly betrayed and now I find that I am a slave who has been stripped naked, body shaved, collared, caned and humiliatingly inspected.
But worse is now to follow! My new Master, Anwar is to exercise his right of ownership over me and to fuck me. And there is nothing that I can do other than to submit to him.
My erotic fantasies over the years should have prepared me for this. How many times in my dreams had I knelt naked before my imaginary, Arab "Master" and longed for him to use me as his sex slave? But that had been merely fantasy and I am finding that grim reality is very much different.
As Hussein grabs my cock and leads me back to the viewing-room where just a short time ago I'd started to fuck the slave, Miguel, my emotions give way to my fears for the future and I begin to sob uncontrollably.
To be continued......
You can access all of the Jean-Christophe stories by joining the archive at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Chritophe_Stories