HARBOUR MASTER, Part 1
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
None of us spoke as we sat there in the slave transporter. Eight guys, all the picture of misery. Since the new laws were passed about ten years ago "justice", if that's what you can call it, has been swift. If you're arrested you're tried the next day, and if you're found guilty, they fine you. No appeal, nothing - guilty, and fined. They got rid of the prisons, as the size of the fines - and the penalty for not paying - deters everyone.
I never thought it would happen to me. Sure, I was wild in my younger days, but mom and dad always managed to pay the fines when I was found drunk, or caught speeding (although they hated having to re-mortgage the house). There could be no college, though, as all the money was gone, so I went straight to work in construction. I never meant to knock up the foreman's daughter, just to fuck her for a bit of fun, so it was no joke to be married at 20 - but the foreman was a really mean, tough guy and he'd have been quite capable of having me beaten up if I hadn't done "the right thing". And you know how it is when you're married - with sex always available, you use it: two screaming kids by the time I was 22, and the prospect of a life of hard work to have to keep paying for it all - no wonder I was pissed off.
Egged on by her dad she threw me out, saying I was no fun any more - it wasn't me that wasn't fun, but I was just so pissed off by her constant whining for more money, more things.... I was doing my best, but it isn't easy when you're in a low-paid job. It's simple to get a divorce, too, in our State, and, of course, it's the father who has to pay - half my earnings were attached at source. And what can you do with the remaining half of a labourer's wages? A grungy room, TV meals from the supermarket, and every night spent just slumped in front of the box, that's all: no vacations, no drinks with the guys after work, no tickets for a match, nothing. Just work, TV, sleep.
Of course I shouldn't have agreed to take part in the robbery, but the two other guys on the site ho thought up the idea said there'd be no risk - with me to intimidate the store keeper, it would all be easy, they said. Well, I suppose I am a bit intimidating at first sight - 6'3", heavily muscled from working on the site, 220 lbs, and really fit looking. But I've got a nice smile, and unlike a lot of 24 year olds, I don't have an outrageous haircut (I keep my thick black hair at a half inch all over), or tattoos, or ear rings, or anything - I'd just be the conventional hometown boy, if only I'd had the chance. Something went wrong, though, and the police were waiting as we came out of the store. It was lucky there wasn't a gunfight or anything, so no one was hurt. But the next day, when I heard I'd been fined 70 thousand, I knew there was no way I was going to be able to pay it within the seven days the law allowed, and mom and dad couldn't help, either.
They clamped the standard "locator bracelet" around my wrist, and told me to come back to the court a week later, or be prepared for the automatic execution of the remainder of the sentence. These bracelets are pretty neat, actually - hardened stainless steel, that you can't easily cut without special tools. And no one with the right tools will help you, as they won't risk the fines! Those fucking satellites will always tell the police where you are if you don't turn up, so once you've been fined, you know there's no point in doing anything other than collecting the money and going back to the court.
Except, in my case, there was no money, as I've said. So I knew what was going to happen to me even before I went up the steps of the court house the next week - I'd given what few things I still owned to the local charity shop, and got a few bucks for my beat up old car at the dealer down the street, that I just gave to a panhandler on the court steps - I knew there was no point in having anything of my own any more.
That's the other change that's taken place - justice is not only swift, it's sure. No paroles, no reducing of sentences, no favours for anyone: if you can't pay the fine, you take the consequences. You know that if you're guilty, you're going to pay - either the money, or with your labour for the rest of your life. So I was expecting the inevitable, and it only took a couple of minutes for the judge to confirm that, as I hadn't paid up within the time limit, I was now a slave. They don't call us "slaves", of course - it has too many unpleasant memories from the history of our country, and the blacks anyway said it was demeaning to have a lot of criminals sullying the proud history of their people. So we're known as permanently indentured prisoners - the ideas is that you're effectively in prison for life, but as the prisons have all been abolished, the state "sells" you (it says it sells your labour contract, to avoid problems in the human rights courts) to whoever will pay. In legal terms you may be a permanently indentured prisoner, but to the mass of the population, you're a slave. That's what everyone calls you, and that's how you're treated - you have no rights, none at all, and the master who's bought your "contract" can do pretty much as he likes with you.
In the first years, before it became clear that they were really going to enforce the law, with absolutely no exceptions, there were quite a few slaves, but the numbers have fallen of rapidly. The whole country is much more law-abiding now, as the potential penalties are so severe, and so sure. Even young guys don't dare to speed any more, no one jumps the lights, and there's almost no drunkenness - let alone burglary, rape, murder... It's almost all gone. So it was only the idiots like me that now got enslaved, and only the poor - almost everyone else took out "sentence insurance" against the big fines, just as they (or their employers, rather, if you worked for a big company), gave them health insurance.
Anyway, here I was, in the slave transporter (there is some fancy official name for it, like "indentured prisoner transport", but I'll just use the everyday words from now on, just as everyone does). There were eight of us in all, and it was only a small van. We sat opposite each other in two rows of four, and as it was so narrow they'd made us put our knees between the knees of the guys opposite,. The alternation of our knees along the rows did at least mean that my face was not pushed directly into that of the guys opposite me, but I was still so close I could hear them breathing, and smell their breath, just as they could mine. As the police loaded us into the transporter at the exit from the court they told us we'd better get used to being close to other slaves - that's why, they said, our hand were cuffed to the bar right above our heads that ran down the middle of the van: we'd have to be physically close to the guy opposite, and couldn't move.
It was hot in there, too - "no need of air conditioning for slaves" - and even though I'd got rid of everything except my T-shirt and jeans before I'd gone back to the Court, I was hot and sweating. Those little rivulets of sweat that form and trickle down the side of your body from your pits had been doing so, and, underneath my jeans, I could feel my cotton boxer were all clammy. All of the eight of us were the same, though, and being pushed so close to the guys on either side of me only meant that their hot bodies added to my discomfort. I'd never been in close contact with other men before - who has, unless you're a footballer? I'm not used to feeling another guy's thighs against mine, of having his pits so close to my face, of having my knee almost touching his crotch.
We drove on and on - after a couple of hours, I needed to piss, even though I'd done so before going into the Court. And judging from the bulges in some of the other guys' pants, and the way they were shuffling, or trying to shuffle, uncomfortably around, so did they. Fortunately we stopped at a rest area, and through the windows of the van we could see the guards going into the rest rooms. When they came back, though, they just started the engine again. One of the guys called out that he needed to pee, too: the driver turned around and opened a panel in the glass separating us from him and the guard, and said "If you slaves want to piss, just go ahead. There are holes in the floor of the van and it will drain away. We don't have keys to those cuffs holding you to the bar, so we can't let you out, and I'm not going to hold your dicks into an empty beer can for you! So piss away if you want to - we've got a couple of hours more to go."
I wasn't the first. It was a guy on the end, who finally muttered "Jesus Christ, I can't hold it any more" as we went over a bumpy stretch where the Interstate was being repaired. I saw the wet patch forming on the front of his pants, and soon there was a little pool of water on the van floor that started to run along its length as we sped onwards. You could smell it, of course, but I guess it was no worse that a badly cleaned rest-room. It was as if a dam had burst, though - once one of us had broken the taboo against pissing in your pants there were soon eight wet patches, and the floor was running with male piss.
I hated it, but I had no choice - my bladder was absolutely bursting, and it didn't matter how hard my dick had got, there was no way it could stretch to accommodate the piss that was straining to come out.
If we hadn't been inclined to talk much before, the shame of pissing in our pants in front of the others meant that we were even less inclined to do so now, and we passed the rest of the journey in stony silence. Although it was hot in the van, it was so humid that the piss didn't really dry out, either - although we were all so covered in sweat generally - I had big wet patches on the front and back of my T, as well as huge rings under my pits - that I don't suppose you'd really notice.
Have you ever tried holding your arms above your head for any length of time? Even though our bodies were wedged together tightly so that the swaying of the van was not too much of a problem, after all that time my arms were really aching. You had to keep your arms in tension, and hold them up there, and you couldn't really afford to let them hang loose, even though you were cuffed to the bar in the centre - the cuffs then started to cut into your wrists, and it hurt. It would have been easy to have arranged some other way of moving us, but, as I came to realise later, when I knew more about "the system", this was probably just one of the ways of starting to get us used to our new status - we could be treated any way they wanted, provided no permanent physical harm came to us. The discomfort of holding our arms up, the packing of us so close together, the heat, and the pissing, were all designed to get us used to thinking of ourselves as less than men: we no longer had even the minimum rights that you expect in a free society.
I thought the journey was never going to end. My muscles were screaming, and I'm a tough guy - some of the others were, I could see, in real difficulties and one young guy ( he can't have been more than seventeen) was quietly sobbing to himself. I didn't have much sympathy with him, actually - at 17, I'd never have cried in public, it didn't matter what they did to me: a man is supposed to be a man by then, and guys don't cry and sob in public - no, they don't cry and sob at all. There was no way that I was going to show I had a problem, and I mentally told my 24-year old muscles to stop bleating and hang in there. But it was hard, and I had a problem with my big frame and long legs - I was getting cramps in my thighs, and wanted to shift and stretch. But if I did, it caused problems for the guys on either side of me. And if I stretched my legs too much, my knee would go into the crotch of the guy opposite (and, I guess, the knees of the guy opposite would go into my crotch, too!). So I just sat there, in grim silence, and prayed it would end soon.
We drew up at one of those standard kinds of industrial "sheds" you see on the outskirts of every town and city - no windows, a couple of air conditioners on the roof, a parking lot out the front, and undistinguished glass doors in the middle. Only the sign on the front made it any different from all the other buildings on the industrial complex - "Slaves For You - Slaves Bought, Sold And Rented." The driver got out and went in, then came out a few minutes later and re-started the van. We drove around to the back, where there was a loading bay, and he finally turned off the engine.
We sat in the stifling humidity and the stench of our own bodies for what must have been a quarter of an hour (none of us had watches now, of course, as we'd all given or thrown hem away to stop the courts having them). Then the doors to the loading bay opened, and five men came out. The leader opened the back door of our van, and a welcome blast of fresh air came in.
"Listen up, and listen up well, you slaves, as I'm only going to say this once.", he began. "I'm the owner of this dealership, and I've bought your contracts from the court, so you're all now effectively mine. My only interest in you is to turn a profit - I process you here to make sure you're all fit and healthy, clean you up generally, and put you into my next sale. I only want a quiet, untroubled life, and to make an honest buck, and, if you're sensible, you'll just go along with the system and co-operate. Under the law, we can take 'any reasonable measures' to make you comply with our orders, and here this is quite simple: we use a modified cattle prod on you if you give us any trouble. We don't use whips in this establishment as it's too difficult to avoid damaging the flesh, and the last thing we want is for you to appear in our sale with any damage - and it anyway puts the buyers off, if they think you're unruly, or don't accept your new status properly. So just do as you're told, and it will be easy for all of us."
"And remember", he went on, "There is no appeal, no possibility of rescue, no way any of you are going to get out of this. You're slaves for life now, and the sooner you get to accept it, the easier it will make your life. We try to be humane here, because that's the best way to make a profit. But if a few prods with the cattle prod don't work, we will consider other measures - we can, you know, have particularly troublesome bucks gelded, to calm you down. My advice would be 'don't try it!'. Buckle down and accept your new status. Take your time here in my dealership as a learning experience for your new life."
"What....", one of the guys started to ask.
"Silence! One of the rules you have to learn is that slaves don't ask questions. They obey, and they only speak when they're answering a question from their masters. You need to learn that you don't have opinions, you don't have things you want - you're just here to obey. So shut the fuck up - the next one f you that speaks without having been asked a direct question will be used as an example to the rest of you - he'll be prodded!"
The other four men - guards, I suppose you'd call them - they were all wearing the same dark green polo shirts, dark blue jeans and tan work boots, then approached. They undid the cuffs holding the guy at the end, and half helped, half dragged him out of the van. The rest of us were able to shuffle along a bit, and it was good not to have the hot, clammy presence of the other guys' bodies and thighs against my own.
"OK, strip!", the guy was commanded by the guards.
He just stood there, looking dazed, generally stretching his cramped body, and trying to massage some life into his arms and ease the discomfort in his wrists.
"I said 'strip!'", the guard snapped again, and when the guy still carried on stretching, he moved forward and touched the guy's forearm with a small stainless steel rod he was holding.
There was s great scream, and the guy fell to the ground, writhing in agony and shouting and moaning. The chief honcho stood there, impassively, watching, then came to us slaves still in the van and remarked
"So that's the demonstration of the prod. I'd advise you to pay more attention to our orders in the future if you want to avoid the fate of your companion there.
It does no permanent damage, but, as you can see, it's pretty uncomfortable!"
The guards had now pulled the guy to his feet, and he was again told to strip. Reluctantly, he undid his shirt, pulled it out of his pants, and took it off. With all of us watching he bent down and slipped off his shoes and socks, and then kind of hopped around awkwardly as his bare feet were on the hot concrete of the loading area. The guards didn't say a word, but you could tell they were getting impatient, and with a sort of shrug the guy unbuckled his belt, and slipped his pants down, stepping out of them. He was quite a slim guy, and he wore those bikini briefs - the bright red of them made a vivid flash of colour against the concrete of the buildings and his own very white skin.
Then he just stood there, shuffling awkwardly.
"When we say 'Strip!', we mean 'Strip naked!'", the guards said. "We don't want your stinking clothes coming into our nice clean facility. You disgusting slaves always arrive here soaked in sweat and piss, so we get you naked outside. Now, lose those things... Or take the consequences". As he said this, the guard waved his stainless steel "prod" menacingly in the guy's direction.
The poor guy looked so embarrassed, but he could see he had no choice with five of them, and the prods, around him. He pushed his bikinis down, and stood there, naked, in front of them. He was in quite good shape, actually - I guess you'd say he had one of those "twink'" bodies, with not a lot of muscle, but no fat either - slight, and looking very vulnerable he was so white and slender standing there in the hot sun surrounded by the big burly guards.
One of the guards advanced and did something we couldn't quite see - until he stepped back and we saw that he's put a collar around the neck of the guy, and that his arms had been raised and folded behind his head. We could see from the way that the guy was moving that he couldn't lower his arms, and we guessed that his wrists must have been attached to the back of the collar.
"Right - next!", the guard spoke, and pulled the next man from the back of the van. He, too, stretched, but on the command to strip, just did so - I think we'd all learned a powerful lesson from seeing what had happened to the first guy.
Having watched all this, I was ready as I was the next one nearest the doors, and as soon as I was released from the bar I started to rub my wrists to get some life back into them, and to flex my arm muscles. I didn't like taking my clothes off, of course - no one does, in the open air, in front of a whole lot of other guys, do they? And I stopped when I was down to my boxers - I don't know why: perhaps it was jut some shred of modesty in me. I've never really been one for team sports, so I wasn't even used to stripping off in a changing room, and in our house, mom, dad and me always went around decently clothed: I know some young guys go around in their boxers at home, but mom and dad always insisted I wore at least shorts and a T in the house. I suppose the only person I'd appeared naked before in a long time, since I was a tiny kid, was that bitch of a wife of mine - and she didn't really like me being totally naked really: she was always trying to buy me those "leisure wear" things that the big stores are tying to push, and then telling me it was only "decent" to wear them, even in bed.
So it was a real effort for me to have to finally hook my thumbs under the elastic of my waistband and push my cotton boxers down. Don't get me wrong - along with my big, muscular body, I've got a good-sized dick, properly in proportion (well, actually, I guess it's over sized if anything), and my low-hanging balls never cause any problems when it comes to shooting a huge load. I've got absolutely nothing to be ashamed of - most guys would actually pay thousands for tackle like mine, I suppose - it's just that I'm not used to exposing myself in front of a whole lot of other guys, and especially not outside!
One of the guards approached me, and told me to bend my head - he needed me to lower myself so that it was easy for him to fit the steel collar around my neck. It had a kind of ratchet mechanism at the ends, and he pushed it so that it was quite tight, but not uncomfortably so - he slipped a finger in between the steel and my neck, and ran it around a bit to make sure there was enough room. Somehow, having a man do that to me made me start to feel different about myself - the only person that normally touches my neck is me, when I occasionally wear a formal shirt with a closed collar, and I try to stretch it a bit to make it more comfortable! He used a small key to lock the ratchet in place when he was satisfied, and then curtly told me to put my arms behind my neck.
He fumbled around a bit, and I felt his hands pushing my wrists into cuffs at the back of the collar - a couple of "snaps", and I was secure.
I thought he'd finished with me, but he reached down and grabbed my dick! I went to jerk backwards, and shouted "Fucker... Let go....", but he didn't. When your wrists are cuffed behind your neck and a guy's holding your dick, there are not a lot of places you can go! I couldn't move backwards, and I thought about head-butting him - but he was holding one of the prods in his other hand.
"Easy, stud!", he snapped at me. "Take it easy! I'm just going to fluff your dick out - it was sticking to your balls a bit, and we like to see guys swinging free and easy. This isn't the last time you're going to get your dick handled, you know - you're a slave now!"
Well, what could I do? It might not be the last time I'd have my dick handled, but it was certainly the first - no guy has ever put his hand on my dick before, and I could hardly believe what was happening to me - the sweaty, hot palm of the guy fondling my dick like that! I just had to stand there, though, and the guy soon let go of my dick. He had a look of quiet satisfaction in his eyes, and said to me
"That's right.... Good boy. Learn to take it. With a body like yours, you're almost certainly going to be sold as a sex toy, so there'll be a lot of handling of that dick of yours."
Up until that moment I hadn't really thought on about what was going to happen to me. I suppose, if I thought about it at all, that slaves were sold as labourers or workers - companies would just buy them to replace workers paid wages. I guessed I'd end up labouring on a construction site somewhere, or perhaps down one of the deep mines, or something like that. But the papers were full of stories about 'sex slaves', and how disgusting old men, and women, had bought young girls and men for their sexual gratification. It wasn't until the guard said about "sex toys" that it had even occurred to me that I might be like this, but the more I thought about it, the more worried I became - after all, at 24, with a hard body and good looks, what woman wouldn't want to sleep with me? But could I get it up, and keep it up, if I had to fuck some really old bitch with sagging tits, or some gross fat slag, however young she was? And then I felt sick inside with another thought - that guard had handled my dick so casually - I'd heard about fags, of course, but I'd never really thought that guys would want to feel other guys: it just shows how naive I was! Suppose I was bought by some sick old pervert who wanted to jerk me off... Or, even worse, wanted me to jerk him off.... I felt so bad as these thoughts struck me that I started to break out in a sweat all over.
"Easy, boy", the guard said, seeing my distress. "Don't fret. Just stay calm, and go and stand by the others over there whilst we finish unloading."
Well, I managed to do it somehow, and eventually all eight of us were standing there, totally naked except for our collars, and all helpless. We watched as the guards went around collecting up all our discarded clothes and shoes, and casually tossed them into a dumpster - somehow that act of throwing away our clothes also made me realise that my old life was finally over.
As we were standing there, a big SUV drew up and a guy got out dressed in smart casual clothes, and pulled a big bag out of the seat. He went and spoke to the chief honcho, and they obviously knew each otter well as they shook hands and slapped each other on the shoulder in greeting.
Right, slaves", the chief honcho addressed us again. "That shows you what a tight ship we run here. The doc has just come, and so there will be no delay in your processing. We're a responsible dealer, and we sell each of you with a clean bill of health - in fact, we guarantee each of you for six months, except for stuff like colds, of course! I know you've all had a long day, but it takes some time to get you all examined, but it's best we do it today so the samples can be processed overnight. The sooner you all get a clean bill of health, the sooner we can sell you, and the sooner you can start to settle into your new life.
Don't worry, though, we will make sure you get fed today - we like our slaves to be in first class condition, and we won't let you starve.... At least, we won't starve you very much: one or two of you could do with losing a pound or two to be in peak sale condition."
So it had started - all this stuff about "a clean bill of health": we were going to be examined whether we liked it or not, and analysed. And "first class condition" - I didn't think I was one of the guys who needed to lose a pound or two, but the very thought that someone was looking at our bodies from the point of view that we needed to do to be presented in the best possible condition for sale make my stomach churn.
I could feel the dun burning on my ass - my body is well tanned, of course as I usually take off my T in the summer when I'm labouring, and my legs are pretty tanned. But obviously from my waist down to my knees, where my work shorts cover me, I'm pure white. Even those minutes standing there under the blazing sun had started to make me think I was going pink! When I was about fourteen I'd once gone "skinny dipping" when it was so hot and I had no swim shorts with me - it was way out in the countryside, when I was walking home from a neighbours, and I didn't think it would matter.
But after I'd lain in the sun to dry, my ass felt distinctly uncomfortable for a few day afterwards. I read somewhere that pure white flesh, that has never been exposed to the sun, can start to burn within ten minutes of exposure, and this seemed to be happening now! I was glad, therefore, when the guards opened a door of the loading bay and gestured at us with their prods to get inside.
The shock of the air conditioning brought all my skin up in goose bumps - it had been so hot and humid in the van, and the period in the blazing sun had not helped at all. I don't suppose it was really cold - just the usual seventy-something that offices are kept at. But in the nude, it always feels colder, I guess.
I'm not one of those guys whose dick shrivels when it's cold, and the contrast between the heat outside and the coolness now started to have an effect on me - to my horror, I could feel my dick start to stir and begin to go erect. What could I do? With my wrists cuffed I couldn't cover myself in any way. I tried to think calming thoughts, but it was no good - you know how it is, when your dick seems as if it almost has a life of its own - the blood just continued to pump down there, and I could feel my skin start to stretch as soon I was half hard.
I think I would have been completely, humiliatingly erect in front of all the others if a blast of water had not then hit us all. We all shouted, and tried to duck away and cover ourselves as best we could, as the guards had a hose and were spraying us with a fierce jet of cold water. I saw that the area we were in, just inside the loading bay, was tiled on the floor and that the water was running away down a drain in the centre. A big sign on the wall said "Notice to all loading bay employees - all slaves MUST be properly hosed down and cleaned before any shipment in OR out takes place. This means YOU!"
They continued to spray us with the water, then, one by one, we were washed. Yes, they washed us! One of the guards had put on one of those plastic suits you can get for cleaning your car and so on, and rubber boots, and was scrubbing each of us down with a big mop on a short stick that he kept dipping into a bucket of suds. Actually, although it was foaming, there was also that antiseptic smell of disinfectant, just like you get in hospitals. When it was my turn he ran the loose mop all down my chest, in my pits (this made me wriggle!), then down my back and legs. My face didn't escape - he didn't even say "close your eyes" or anything as the mop was thrust at me, But worst of all was when he came to do my ass and my pubes - I had to bend over so that he could shove the mop right up my ass crack. And when I turned around so he could do my pubes, he wasn't at all gentle and I got several of those awful twinges you get from your balls.
"Oh, another one with a 'skin" he said to the others, then came up to me and reached for my dick with his rubber-gloved hand. I moved back, getting away from him.
"Steady, boy - a prod when your body is all wet will be even worse!", he snapped, so I had to stand there whilst he took my cock in his hand and pulled back my foreskin. He was really rough - or, rather, I guess he was like all guys without 'skins - they don't know just how sensitive your dick head is when it's used to being covered! I squirmed as his rubber-coated thumb ran around inside my 'skin to clean it thoroughly. It was hateful - no guy has ever touched me like that before, and even that bitch of a wife knew she could look, but not touch, me in that way. Was it always going to be like this, I wondered?
A final sluice from the cold hose, and I was pronounced done, and told to go over and stand by the others. We all stood there, shivering slightly, waiting for all eight of us to go through this washing process, and then the guards lined us up and led us off down a corridor inside the building into a room that said "Doctor" on the door.
It looked like a pretty conventional doctor's office, except that there wasn't that place in the corner with a screen around it where you can take off your clothes - I guess that was totally superfluous for the patients here, who were naked already. The guards told us to sit down along one wall, and we sank down with some difficulty - you try sitting down when your hands are cuffed behind your head. The smooth thermoplastic tiles on the floor felt cold against my naked ass, and the guards made us pull our legs in, so our knees were up by our faces, to not take up so much floor space. I knew that my dick and balls must be hanging down between my thighs, where everyone could see, and I hated the idea.
As it so happens, I was first. The guards gestured to me to get up, and to go and stand in front of the doctor. He undid the cuffs at the back of my neck, so I could stand there with my arms at my side. I resisted the temptation to try to cover my tackle with my hands - after all, I suppose the guy was a doctor.
"Name?"
"Steve Jones."
"Slave, get used to it.... All free men, real men, are 'master', 'boss', or 'sir'. You call me 'Sir'."
"Now, again, name?"
Fuck him, I thought. I just stood there. The doctor gestured at the guard, and the next moment I was writhing on the floor, howling in pain. It was as if every part of me had been hit with a hammer or something - you know how it is, when your thumb gets in the way when you're fixing something. Like that, only all over.
The guard pulled me to my feet after a few moments, and the doctor said, perfectly calmly, "It's good you get prodded early on - it makes you more respectful, and helps you to understand who's in charge. I always like one of you slaves to be disrespectful up front, as it's more humane - it saves a whole lot of trouble with the others later on. Us doctors are bound by the Hippocratic oath not to cause unnecessary suffering, you know, so thank you! Now, let's try again. Name?"
"Steve Jones..... Sir."
"Age?"
"24, Sir."
"Any serious illnesses in your past, taking any medication now?"
The questioning went on for a bit - I told him I'd had my tonsils out, and had all the usual childhood stuff, but nothing else. Then he asked me about sex, and I told him I'd had two kids.
"Good. Properly fertile men are always in demand. We'll still have to test you, of course, for the formal sales dossier. Now, go and lie on the examination table...."
The leather of the table was cold against my back and ass, but I lay there whilst the doctor attached all those little electrode things to my chest so that he could do an ECG on me. I was expecting a rectal exam, like you get when doctors are giving you an annual check-up, and I wasn't surprised therefore to be told to bend over the table afterwards. The only difference was that the doctor didn't snap a rubber glove on first - it was his raw finger that probed up my ass hole! And, unlike any exam I'd ever had before, it went on and on, until suddenly I gave a gasp of pleasure - one of those waves of sensation you feel when you are about to cum swept over me, and I thought I was going to shoot all over the doctor's office.
"Good. Proper reaction to the prostate. Now.... Let's examine those balls of yours whilst you're bent over - not enough of you young guys check for cancer....."
His hands, warm and moist, gripped my balls as I lay there and I felt him massaging them around between his thumb and forefinger. I suppose it was all right that he should be handling me like this as, after all, he was a doctor. But I'm used to doctors doing intimate things like this with gloves on. He pronounced me OK, though.
There was a portable X-ray machine in the corner, and I also had my chest X-rayed, and then I was told to stand in front of the doctor's desk again.
"Right. Now all that's left is the samples. Put your hand on the desk."
I put my hand down, and saw him fussing with those little test tubes they have when you give a blood sample. I hate the it where they stab the back of your finger - I guess it's the thought of it, rather than the actual pain - but I just had to hold my hand there whilst he stabbed at it with his scalpel, and squeezed.
He pushed another of the tubes towards me. "Urine, please. Not too much, just half full."
I went to take the tube and go off to the men's room, as you do, but he stopped me. "No, here! Don't be so fucking shy - you're a slave, and I'm a doctor. What's there to be shy about? Get pissing!"
It's hard, isn't it? However much you want to piss, if you have to, you can't. I stood there, straining, trying to force some out. And, of course, when it did come, I couldn't stop - it hurts, as we all know, to have to cut yourself off in mid flow and I did all the things you have to - clenching my ass together, and desperately trying to stop. I did, but only before the little cylinder was completely full, and some had flowed over onto the doctor's desk.
He had to mop it up with a clinical wipe whilst I watched. He shouted at me, saying "You fucking slaves, you're just like animals! No wonder you've come to a bad end, if you were brought up to go around pissing on the furniture at home. You slaves just don't have any self control. But, what do you expect - if you could behave properly, you probably would not have got into trouble in the first place. You'd better hope that it hasn't damaged the polish, slave, else I'll order a whipping for you, even though this place doesn't usually like to damage the stock before it's sold."
He calmed down a bit eventually, and pushed the third tube towards me. "Right - last sample. A big load of semen, please, and, this time, make sure it doesn't go on my desk or that whipping will be ordered."
I've never jerked off in front of anyone else in my life! Not even in front of that slut of an ex-wife - but then, I didn't have to, as I was always ready to ram her. I went hot all over, and could feel the red glow of a blush spreading all over me.
"Please, sir, not this.... Not here..... Please, I can't jerk off with all these guys watching.... Can I at least go to the bathroom?"
"You idiot! As I said before, you're a slave. So what's there to be embarrassed about? Suppose you're sold to a sex show - do you think they'd let you go to the bathroom to jerk off? Stop pratting around, get that magnificent dick of yours hard, and start beating!"
"But sir, you know I'm virile - I've fathered two kids...."
"Yes, and a lot of young guys like you then get themselves tied off once they've fathered 'the heir and the spare'. We need a current sperm count in your sale particulars, so that if anyone is going to buy you as a stud, so they can sell semen to childless women, they know you're not shooting blanks. So get on with it!"
Well, try as I could, I just couldn't make it happen. The more I tried to jerk myself off, the more my dick seemed to shrivel up. I just couldn't get it erect, with the seven other slaves, the doctor, and the guards all watching me.
After a couple of futile minutes, the doctor snapped "OK. That's enough. Back on to the examination table, on your back."
With the guard pointing his prod at me, I did as he said and lay there.
"Right - spread your legs apart, and raise your knees."
I did as the doctor ordered, and he came and stood by me. I saw him rub something from a tube all over his middle finger, and the next instant he was probing for my ass hole again. I grunted and tried to hold my hole closed, but his slippery finger - I guess the stuff must have been some kind of grease that he'd used - forced its way in. Then there was that explosion of sensation again, as he got to my prostate. I gasped and moaned with the pleasure it was causing me.
"Good, isn't it slave? Now, we'll soon have you erect."
Turning to the guard, he said "Do you want to jerk him off, or shall he do it himself?"
"Yes, sir! I'd love a feel of that prick of his. I'll do it."
The guard came and stood next to the doctor, then spat all over his hand - big gobs of his spit went all over the fingers and the palm. The doctor started his infernal probing again and I was soon moaning and even started to writhe around a bit, trying to make the incessant pleasure his finger was causing me to kind of go away - you know how it is, you half want something to stop because you know it's wrong, but the other half of you wants it to go on, and on.
OH fuck! I then felt the guard's hot, moist hand on my dick. He started to tease it gently up and down, then to slide my foreskin backwards and forwards so that my cock head was exposed and covered. Coupled with the sensation flooding me from the doctor's massage, I felt myself starting to go erect! Oh Christ - having a hard-on in front of a room full of other guys, with some guy jerking me - I'd never been so humiliated in my life. In between my moans I begged them to stop.. "Oh, please, don't... Don't do this to me.... Oh....."
I was fully erect now, and the guard was banging my sensitive cock head into the palm of his hand as he jerked at me. I could feel that amazing sensation building inside of me as I started to cum, and it seemed to take only an instant before I was pumping big streams of my creamy white cum out of the end of my dick. As he sensed it starting to happen, the guard had pushed my dick down towards my belly, and the cum shot up towards my chest, liberally coating my belly and pecs as it did.
"Excellent!", the doctor commented as he pulled his finger out. "Enjoy that?", he asked the guard.
"Yes, sir! I like to get a good feel of these big studs - nothing like a hard, hot dick in your hand, is there, unless it's up your ass?"
I was appalled that two men could be discussing dicks and asses like this. Where I come from, you don't talk about sex much. And you certainly don't talk about dicks, or putting them up asses, at all! Well, I suppose that's not strictly true - a couple of guys at school who were regarded as pretty wild did say that they'd taken their girl friends up the ass, but no one really believed them - they thought they were just bragging. But to hear a guy say he liked a dick up
his ass - well, it was disgusting. Men didn't do things like that where I came from - it only went on in San Francisco, and New York, if the papers were to be believed.
The doctor got one of those little spatula things and scraped some of my cum off my belly into one of the tubes. "Nice muscle tone you've got there", he commented as the spatula slid across the ridges and valleys of my belly muscles. "Work out a lot?"
"No... Sir. It's just from working on a construction site. I don't have the time, or the money, to go to a fancy gym."
"Well, that should serve you well - some connoisseurs of slave flesh believe they can differentiate between 'proper' muscle, like yours, from hard work, and 'gym muscle'. And the 'proper' muscle fetches much higher prices. And if a master has paid top dollar for you, he's more inclined to take good care of you, and less likely to order whippings."
"Now, get back over there and sit down again, whilst I do the others."
I went to pick up one of the medical wipes from the box he'd used to wipe up my piss, but he snapped "No! Let your cum dry on you. It will remind you that we have total power over you, and that if you don't do as you're told, it will happen to you anyway."
"Hands behind your neck", the guard snapped, and I could only do as he said, watching the prod nervously.
I hate sitting there watching all the other seven - not only did it take a long time, but I could keep smelling my cum as it dried in the thatch of hair on my chest. I knew the guys sitting next to me must be able to smell it as well, and although they obviously knew what it smelled like - well, who doesn't, after all - I'd never smelled another guy's cum before and I didn't want them smelling mine!
When we were all done we were led off, getting fed on the way - our arms were still cuffed behind our heads, so they put a thick pipe into our mouths and pumped some sort of thick paste, with a faint taste of meat, in. You really had to swallow hard as the stuff forced its way into your mouth, and the guards stood there laughing as they pumped away at the handle of the container containing the paste - they said that it looked as if we were eating shit, and kept asking us if the turds tasted nice.
Our beds for the night turned out to be a set of plastic covered pads in a completely bare room - we were led in by the guards, told to find a pad, and to lie down. They pointed to a hole in the corner where we could pee or crap, and to a kind of spigot thing on the wall where we could get water if we pressed it with our tongue. After the "meal", we were all thirsty, and that scene was one I shall remember for a long time as showing how far we'd come from being men and becoming slaves - the eight naked men, kneeling in front of the tap on the wall in turn to get mouthfuls of water, with their hands cuffed behind their necks. Then going to try to piss down the hole in the floor - have you ever tried to direct the stream of piss from your dick when you can't hold it? The only good way, we found, was to kneel so that you were sort of astride the hole, and let your dick point straight down. But then you got the smell coming up from the sewer at you, and I could feel the dampness on my knees where some of the earlier guys had kind of mis-aimed. It was just as well that none of us needed to crap - I can't imagine doing it in front of other guys, and how would we clean ourselves afterwards, unable to use our hands?
It had been a long day, though, and even though it's really difficult to sleep when there's absolutely nothing on top of you, I did manage it sooner than I expected. I suppose I woke up once or twice during the night and heard the sounds of other men sleeping around me - the snores, sighs, and little farts that all guys make as they sleep. It was really strange, as I'd never slept in a room with seven other guys before (and especially not seven other totally naked ones).
End Of Part 1