The Obedient Male

Read this and my other Male Slave Fantasies at JOHN DEE COOPER’S ALL-MALE SLAVE STORIES or join me on https://groups.google.com/g/obedientservice

SAM by John Dee Cooper © 2020

Chapter 9

“The first thing you need to do is attach these electrodes to his balls and nipples,” said Paul as the two of them examined the various metal clamps that Paul’s boy had laid across Sam’s back as he hung stretched out horizontally face down, four feet off the ground. “But make sure they’re clipped on tight, otherwise they’ll come loose when he starts thrashing about.”

Jack was a little nervous of the neat wooden box that Paul’s boy had brought in from the Baron’s car with all its wires and switches and dials. It looked a tad too sophisticated for his liking and he didn’t want any permanent damage to be done to his slave — not just yet anyway.

“Which of these should I use?” he asked.

“Here.”

Jack took the pair of small red grips that Paul had given him and felt around for the slave’s nipples — but the way he was hanging they were difficult to reach and the flesh was drawn so tight around them that he couldn’t get a proper grip, so he gave the slave a slap on the backside and told him to pull himself upright.

It took all Sam’s concentration, what with the racking pain in his arms and the weight heaving at his legs and the effort of trying to breath properly. The leather straps were eating into his wrists and his neck was stiff from trying to hold his head up. Now they were attaching wires to him and he couldn’t bear thinking about what they were going to do with the black box. He wanted to cry out but he knew in the pit of his stomach it would be useless. He took a deep breath, grabbed the chains and, pumping all his pent up anger into his thick muscular arms, hoisted himself up until, with his fists clenched tight against his shoulders and his whole upper body trembling, he was able to hold his chest and stomach in a more or less upright position long enough for his Master to do whatever he had to do.

Jack certainly had more access now but the slave’s muscles were so tight with the effort of holding himself up straight that it was hard to get a purchase on the flesh around the nipples. He tried punching to loosen it up a little but he really wasn’t making a very good job of it.

“Let me show you,” said Paul and with a practised hand squeezed a nipple between his thumb and forefinger pulling it far enough forward to snap the electrode neatly around it.

“Now tighten it with the little screw.”

Jack did so and then, following Paul’s example with the other nipple, found it wasn’t that difficult once you’d got the hang of it. Sam had never known such agony. The clips dug in so tight, tugging at his nipples, they sent spasms of pain ripping through his stomach. He had to find a whole new way of breathing just to work around the pain. It brought tears to his eyes. He swallowed hard to contain the swell that was building up in his throat. Please, he wanted to scream, please, please let me down.

Through the hazy mist of tears he caught a glimpse of Paul’s boy standing quietly to attention in one corner, his smooth limbs and white tunic making him look for all the world like an angel, and for a brief, highly charged moment, Sam was overcome with shame at his own helpless exposure and weakness.

Jack meanwhile found grabbing hold of the slave’s balls a lot easier now he was holding himself upright but he wasn’t sure exactly where to position the electrodes. Paul suggested that to begin with he should just screw the clamp onto the loose ball sac, then once they’d got started they could experiment with fixing the electrode directly on to the testicles or even attach it to his penis.

“That’s the intriguing thing,” he said. “Every slave reacts differently. We can just play around until we find something we like.”

Once it was all set, Sam was able to ease himself down gently again until his arms and legs were fully extended and he was hanging at full length staring down at the floor, his weight supported by his wrists at one end and his ankles at the other, the pressure bearing down on the small of his back and his balls swinging loose with the electric wires dangling from them.

Jack ran his hands along the boy’s arms and felt the big muscles flex as they shifted under the strain and followed the swollen ridges down his back to the point where it flattened out into the area between the base of the spine and the bulk of his buttocks.    

“There’s space enough here to sit on,” he said with a grin, “if we strung him down a bit lower.”

He meant it as a joke but Paul thought it wasn’t at all a bad idea.

“Never be afraid to follow your instincts. We can test him later to see how much weight he can bear and how comfortable it would be to sit on him when he’s strung up like this. What a great way to entertain guests. Imagine — a string of slaves stretched out like hammocks. We’re always using slaves as furniture but this would be a whole new thing. But for now let’s concentrate on our little box of tricks and see what fun we can have with that.”

The first shock of electricity ripped through Sam, taking him by surprise, socking him in the stomach and choking him. It only lasted a few seconds but it knocked the wind out of him and left him fearful of what was to come next. And then it came rushing in great pulsating waves, a relentless battering ram attacking every part of him, twisting, punching, tearing, wrenching, suffocating him in its iron grip. There was nothing he could do to control it or deflect it. It surged through him in spasms, in and out, screwing up his muscles and paralysing his limbs. He couldn’t tell if he was making any sound but inside his head he was screaming down the heavens.

The thing that surprised and delighted Jack the most was how the electric current instantaneously transformed the slave’s body into something like a living, moving sculpture, taking hold of it, twisting and rolling it into ever new contortions and revealing a whole variety of new shapes and patterns out of the mass of hard muscle.

“I could go on playing with this for hours,” he exclaimed as they moved the electrodes around to see what new effects they could get. “He’s so much more than just a quarry slave. It makes me think of lots of new things I could do with him.”

“It’s an excellent way of finding out a slave’s physical potential,” said Paul as he helped Jack flip the body over to face upwards for a while so they could get a better view of the slave’s stomach and torso as the current rippled through it. “Try whipping him in between bouts of electricity. It’ll heighten the intensity and keep up the tension.”

Sam tried to prepare himself for each fresh onslaught, but they’d moved the electrodes so many times, even inserting one inside his penis and forcing one down his arse, that he never knew where the impact was going to land next. And now they were twisting him around and lashing him with a whip.

His screams were real now. He could hear them bouncing off the broken brick walls and echoing round the ruined house. How could he feel so much pain when his body was so completely paralysed? After a while the screams settled into incoherent blubbering. If they didn’t stop torturing him soon he wouldn’t be able to breath at all.

And then suddenly out of nowhere there came a great calm. He could see that his body was still twisting and contorting and the whip was still biting into his flesh, but in his head everything was still.

Read this and other stories on my blog: JOHN DEE COOPER’S ALL-MALE SLAVERY STORIES

PAULO by John Dee Cooper © 2020

Chapter 7 Incredible to believe, but only the day before this I’d been free. OK, I was a runaway hiding in the woods, but at least I had choices. I could have chosen to turn around and go back to the orphanage. I could have chosen to find work somewhere and build a new life. But instead I chose to stow away on a truck, and because of that one stupid decision I had lost everything and become a slave — although it was still a struggle to get my head round what that really meant.  

The road away from the Slave Processing Centre was long and winding. It seemed to go on forever, and although the buggy Señor Boronda was driving wasn’t travelling very fast there was no let up. I wasn’t used to running, and it isn’t easy keeping your balance when your thumbs are tied behind your back. I was terrified of tripping up and getting strangled by the rope that linked our collars together.

The tarmac bruised our feet and although it was a chilly night our bodies were dripping with sweat. Luis seemed to be coping alright. He was more athletic than me and was striding along bravely. But poor little Tomas was having difficulty keeping up.

I kept going over in my head what the Señor had said about his special English clients and their Brothels. I knew what a brothel was of course. But what made the English ones so different? And by now of course I realised he was talking about me as well as Luis and Tomas. We were the three items of cargo he was so desperate to get on to the English ship. But what exactly was going to happen to us after that?

I was truly scared now. I was running towards a terrible unknown fate. Everything about me, my nakedness, my shaved head, the leather strap around my balls (which was stinging like hell), the metal tag sewn into my ear, each of these was a curse. I wanted to shout out for help, but I couldn’t. I was too frightened. And anyway I was out of breath.

When we finally got to the dockside, the Señor stopped the buggy which meant with our thumbs tied we all stumbled blindly into the back of it, giving Miguel an opportunity to give us one final wallop with his riding crop.

I was in agony. I had a stitch in my side. I was panting so hard that my throat was on fire and I felt sick. I was angry too. It was as if I was being punished for something I hadn’t done. Even running away from the orphanage didn’t deserve being forced to run stark naked through the open street. And anyway I was sure they couldn’t make you a slave without giving you some kind of warning. How did I know if it was official? How did I know they hadn’t just made it up? I wanted to shout at the old man and tell him to stuff all that shit about service and sacrifice — but instead my knees buckled under me and I threw up.  

Señor Boronda, who obviously didn’t give a fig about me being sick, grabbed my collar and hauled me onto my feet.

An official in uniform, the dockyard foreman or something, appeared and took a note of what was written on our ear tags. Then he started talking to the Señor in a language I didn’t understand. It might have been German, but thinking about it now, it was probably English. Whatever it was, it ended up with us being led away to another part of the dockyard by a couple of workers. I call them workers but judging from their pierced ear-lobes and shaved heads they must have been slaves as well. But because they wore shorts, tee-shirts and sandals, they were way above us and could boss us around as much as they liked — which they did.

Once we were out of earshot of the Señor, we started firing questions at these workers. It turned out they were all foreigners, though they could speak Spanish pretty well. They were armed with canes and used them to bully us back into silence — but not before dropping a few hints about us having to be “cleaned out” before we could be loaded onto the slave ship. I had no idea what they were talking about but I think Luis did, because he pulled a face and swore.

They took us to a secluded spot behind a low wall. This, we were told, was the “cleaning area” though it just looked to me like an open drain. There were three steps leading down to a narrow stream of running water and we had to stand on the top step with our backs to the stream. Our thumbs were still tied and the rope linking our collars had been tethered securely to the wall so we couldn’t move. And then we had to bend over while the workers went along inserting the ends of thick rubber hoses into our arseholes.

It was quite a job as we were all virgins in that area and it took a lot of poking around with their fingers before they could ease the hose-pipes in. And we weren’t exactly co-operating. They had to gag Tomas to stop him howling, and I kept trying to kick them away — which ended with me getting a nasty caning on the back of my thigh.

I still hadn’t got over my attack of nausea so it was quite a struggle when they started to pump the water in and my bowels began to swell up. What made it worse, they kept poking our stomachs to see how full we were. Any sign of leakage and we got whacked with the cane.

Soon the pressure was so intense there was no way of disguising the agony. But they kept pumping the water in until I thought my stomach was going to explode. Even after they’d taken the hose-pipes out, we still had to hold it in, and to make things worse, they made us run on the spot — they said it was to make sure the water worked its way through our systems, but thinking back on it now it was probably just so they could have a good laugh at our expense. They were giggling a lot as we begged them to let us empty our cramped bowels.

But what a glorious relief it was when they finally gave the word and the contents of our aching bowels cascaded down the concrete steps. We’d only had a mouthful of porridge to eat all day so it was mainly just liquid, but we squeezed out every last drop until our overseers were satisfied that our bowels were completely empty.

I felt surprisingly alive, as if the whole inside of my body had been cleaned out. The night air was sharp but pleasant and I began to feel a little more confident about coping with the challenges ahead.

It must have been around midnight now and the floodlit dockyard had a strange, unearthly quality about it, with the shadow of the cliffs looming up behind us and the open sea ahead, stretching out into unfathomable darkness.

Two ships towered over the dockside like sleeping giants. It seems that most of the cargo had already been loaded onboard, but there were still a few crates and barrels standing around in neat piles along the quay’s edge.

One small area in particular, on the side furthest from the waterfront, caught my attention. Penned in by a crude wooden fence, and under the watchful eye of several armed guards, were about fifty or sixty slaves — men, women and children of all ages and races. They were close enough for me to see them quite distinctly. Like us they all had metal tags hanging from their ears and were completely naked, with their heads shaved and their hands bound behind them — even the children, of which there were more than a dozen. They looked as if they had been waiting a long time. They had probably been off-loaded during the previous day and were waiting either to be taken inland for sale, or to be put aboard another ship to continue their journey. Some of them were lounging around, some appeared to be asleep, others were just standing there staring at the dockyard. But what struck me most was how quiet they were. One or two were humming dolefully, some were whispering to one another, but most of them were simply waiting silently, wondering what unknown destination awaited them.

I’d just started to ask myself the same question, when I was knocked off my feet by a jet of cold water. The workers were giving us a final hose down before taking us back to the quayside, where the foreman was waiting for us. The ship’s cargo officer had joined him, but there was no sign of Señor Boronda. He’d finished his business here and gone back to deal with Rico and Adolpho, I suppose, leaving us in the hands of total strangers who spoke a language we couldn’t understand. Tomas pressed up close to me, but I was just as frightened as him and if my thumbs hadn’t been tied I would have put my arms round him. Luis was the bravest of us, and I wondered how much he already knew about what was going on.

The cargo officer looped a chain through our collars and pulled us over to one of the big ships. We stood shivering in the shadow of its huge metal hull while he made a call on his walkie-talkie. We heard the distant rattle of a crane and watched as a small wooden crate was lowered over the side of the ship to a spot a few feet away from us. The cargo officer pulled open one of its sides and told us to get in. It was made of rough wooden slats bound together with rope and didn’t look very sturdy. It wasn’t very big either. There was just enough room for the three of us to squeeze in. We huddled together convinced it was going to fall apart as soon as it left the ground.

The signal was about to be given to haul us up when there was a shout from the other side of the quay. The cargo officer made some hurried calls on his walkie-talkie, opened the crate and pulled us out again.

It seems there was more last minute cargo to be loaded aboard.

Running towards us were two naked slaves. One was Caucasian, the other a Negro, and both had herculean bodies. The Caucasian was leaner and more athletic in build and his head was partly shaved, leaving a streak of hair down the middle, Mohican style. But the Negro was all muscle. His skin was as black as ebony and there was not a hair on his head or his body. As they got nearer I could see that there were pieces of metal attached to every part of him, including his nose, ears and cock. Both slaves were heavily endowed and they had steel rings round their balls, which made their loose genitalia bang against their thighs as they ran.  

I remember noting at the time that there was no-one attending them. They had been sent over on their own, and when they arrived they stood quietly to attention awaiting orders. These were serious, fully trained slaves. Not scared and bewildered rookies like us. And they were a lot older and way, way bigger than us. Was this what we were meant to grow up to be?    

The cargo officer and the foreman discussed what to do and came out in favour of jamming us all in the same crate. How they managed it I couldn’t say because I was in a state of shock. I’d never seen such muscular men before, let alone been  squashed up naked in a wooden box with them. These two giants were put inside first and we had to squeeze in around them, so that our backs were jammed against the wooden slats and our noses pressed against their sweaty bodies. With my thumbs still tied behind me I had to bury my face in the Negro’s massive chest to steady myself. He was still heaving from his run. The heat coming from his body was overpowering and I could actually feel his sweat dribbling down my chest. His pulse was thumping and his enormous cock was pushing its way between my legs — almost lifting me off my feet!

I managed to twist my head round enough to see that Luis was jammed up against the white slave and poor Tomas was stuck somewhere in the middle.

It was a living nightmare. Luis, Tomas and I shrieked like babies when the crane started to lift us off the ground, the wooden slats bending and creaking under our combined weight. We pressed ourselves tightly against the two older slaves, who were completely nonplussed by the whole business. They’d probably been through this a hundred times before. I could hear the white slave chuckle quietly, but the Negro was as silent and as steady as a rock, even though I was sticking to him like glue.

As we swung high above the dock I was convinced that the crate was going to snap into pieces and send us hurtling to our deaths. If my hands had been free I would have clung to the Negro, as it was, all I could do was cushion myself as best I could against his thick leathery muscles and take comfort in the hot musky smell of his black flesh.

Daring myself to peer down through the cracks in the wooden crate, I watched as we swung up over the ship’s side and then, after hovering for a moment above the deck, dropped down towards a giant black hole.

Read this and other stories on my blog: JOHN DEE COOPER’S ALL-MALE SLAVERY STORIES

PAULO by John Dee Cooper © 2020

Chapter 5 “Closer!”

Luis crept forward, nervously conscious of his naked body, until he was standing midway between the Señor’s outspread legs.

“On your knees!”

He knelt down. With his back to me I wasn’t able to see everything that was going on, but it looked as if the Señor was giving him a thorough looking over, testing the strength of his neck and shoulders, grabbing hold of his thick curly hair, checking behind his ears, looking inside his mouth — all the while Miguel standing there writing notes down in a little book.

“Up!”

Luis got back onto his feet, still facing the Señor who’s attention now was on his chest and tummy — and, so it seemed, his private parts. Luis winced a few times, and when he was told to turn around so that the Señor could look at his back, it was clear from the expression on the boy’s face that he didn’t like what was going on.

Luis’s body was slim and muscular with a smooth golden tan. He was agile. A handsome, healthy sixteen-year old. But with  the Señor’s fat fingers crawling all over him he looked tense and vulnerable, and I couldn’t help noticing that his cock, which was already quite thick and heavy, had begun to stir.

“Touch your toes!”

Luis did as he was told while the Señor used a torch to explore between his buttocks and this time I could clearly see him reaching through to take hold of Luis’s balls, giving them a tug and making poor Luis squeal.

“On your knees.”

Down he went and I could see how scared he was as the Señor grabbed his wrists and bound them together behind his back.

What happened next took us all by surprise, not least poor Luis. The Señor took some electric shears and shaved off the boy’s thick flock of curly black hair. Every bit of it. There was nothing subtle about the way he did it. No warning. He just ploughed through it all without any thought for Miguel’s feelings.  We watched it fall in great clumps onto the floor in front of Miguel who cursed and swore. When he tried to wriggle out of reach of the shears he got a hard slap across the back of his head.

Within seconds Miguel was completely transformed. He stared up at us like a frightened animal. He was as bald as a new born baby and there were tears in his eyes.

We were all stunned. Rico swore under his breath. Adolpho stomped his feet and made angry noises from behind his gag. Tomas and I just gasped. The Señor had his hands full, but we could see from the look in his eyes that he’d taken full note of this outburst. The Keeper, who was watching from the door, cracked his whip and that quietened everyone down.

“Up and face me.”

Trembling with fear and humiliation, Miguel got up and turned towards the Señor. We could see now that it was his thumbs that had been bound together with thin plastic zip tags, not his wrists.   The shears buzzed away again, this time smoothing away the hairs on his tummy and around his genitals. The Señor took a moment to admire his handiwork, then keeping a firm grip on Luis’s neck dragged him over to the shower.

Luis threw me a glance as he staggered past. We hardly knew each other but I could see from the shame and anger in his face that he wasn’t the same boy any more. He was like some kind of shivering alien and his bald scalp and hairless body made him look more naked than ever.

Before the Señor had a chance to turn the shower on, a phone rang and he vanished leaving us under the eagle eye of the Keeper. Tomas looked up at me and I thought he was going to whisper something but I gave him a nudge to stop him. We couldn’t take any risks. When I was sure the Keeper wasn’t looking, I gave his arm a gentle squeeze to reassure him that there was nothing to worry about. I don’t think he believed me.

We could hear the Señor talking on the phone. There was something about an English ship leaving early in the morning and about getting his cargo aboard before midnight. He called Miguel over for a quick word then asked the Slave Keeper to lend him a hand.

All this time poor Luis had been hovering nervously by the shower, looking more miserable than ever and trying to get used to having no hair. When the Keeper came striding towards him, his heavy boots scraping the floor and the instruments of pain jingling from his belt, I had to look away. I was sure Luis was going to get a beating. But it seems the Keeper was just there to hold him steady and stop him squirming about — because of what was about to happen next.

The Señor was busying himself with a large needle, some thread and a metal tag. He wrote something on the tag with a special kind of pen and then took it and the needle over to a small gas fixture in the wall. He put on a thick glove, lit the gas and held the needle over the flame until it was red hot.

The keeper had his arm round Luis’s neck to keep him still while the Señor pushed his head to one side and forced the red hot needle through his earlobe.

Luis screamed — as much in shock as in pain. The Keeper had the devil of a job keeping him still while the Señor dragged the thread through the hole he’d made in his ear. When it was secure he tied the metal tag to it.   They were close enough for me to get a good look at the tag when the Señor stepped away. There were some numbers written on it and what I assumed to be the Señor’s sign or logo. It hung there like a weird sort of price tag with a dribble of blood oozing from the wound.

Next the Señor reached down and grabbed Luis’s balls between his fingers and thumb, wound a leather strip around the stem of the ball sac and knotted it tight. When he let go, Luis’s balls hung low in a neat round bundle.

While all this was going on things were getting jumpy up on the platform. The Keeper had left the door open and, despite being bound and gagged, Adolpho decided to make a dash for it. Luis’s screams must have sent him crazy. The idiot. He was never going to get ver far.

I kept as still as I could and made sure Tomas did the same, but I could see that Rico was thinking about it. He had one foot off the platform when the Keeper shouted, “FREEZE!” so loudly it made my blood curdle. Rico’s foot shot back onto the platform and in his panic, Adolpho slipped and fell with a nasty bang on the tiled floor.

The speed and efficiency of what happened next was terrifying. The Keeper dropped Luis and grabbed Adolpho by the hair, hoisted him onto his feet and marched him over to a corner where there was some kind of pulley fixed to the ceiling. He tied ropes round Adolpho’s ankles and hauled him up till he was dangling with his head inches from the ground.

“Give him twenty strokes,” shouted the Señor. “Twenty more if we have any more disturbances. And keep it clean. No permanent marks.” The Keeper rolled his shoulders and flexed his biceps, tested his cane with a few practice swipes, then whacked the boy’s trembling buttocks. Adolpho, who still had tape over his mouth, could only let out a muffled scream but he jerked about so much it looked as if he was going to shake himself free and come crashing down onto the tiled floor. But the ropes held and we watched in horror as the Keeper administered the full compliment of strokes, only pausing once to catch his breath. Adolpho’s piteous strangled cries reverberated round the room  and turned our stomach’s to jelly.    

“If any more of you annoy me or step out of line,” warned the Señor, “your friend there will get twenty more strokes on your behalf — and you might even join him.” This was my first experience of slave punishment and it was unlike anything I had witnessed at the Orphanage. Things could get pretty brutal there, but this — this was something else. Adolpho was strung up like a piece of meat. He hardly looked human anymore. The Keeper showed no compassion. He was simply doing what had to be done.

While we were all being taught this terrifying lesson, the Señor finished Luis’s preparation, pushed him into the shower and turned on the cold water. It was Miguel’s job to keep him in there while he lathered him all over with soap. There was a frenzy of squealing and cursing until eventually the smooth motion of Miguel’s soapy fingers seemed to calm Luis down and he surrendered to the icy cold torrent. Perhaps remembering what the Señor had said earlier, I noticed he was also gulping down as much of the water as he could manage.

The shower was turned off and Luis was sent back to his place on the platform. There was no towel. He had to scamper across the tiled floor dripping like a drowned puppy, his smooth skin glistening and his stiff cock and neatly tethered balls bouncing around like an angry fist.

“Now, where had we got to?” murmured the Señor once Luis was back in place and Adolpho’s shrieks had subsided. “Oh yes, the young fellow here.”

He grabbed the terrified Tomas and pulled him off the platform.

Read this and other stories on my blog: JOHN DEE COOPER’S ALL-MALE SLAVERY STORIES

PAULO by John Dee Cooper © 2020

Chapter 4

Mamma mia! I’d led such a sheltered life!

I’d been fed so much propaganda at the orphanage, and seen so little of the outside world, that I had no idea how things really were under the Reich Marshalls’ rule. Of course we’d heard about forced labour — it was one of the building blocks of the new Reich and one of the reasons why I was so scared about being sent to a labour camp — but out-and-out slavery was something that belonged to comic books and adventure stories. It never crossed my mind that for almost two generations now it had become an ordinary fact of life across most of Europe and America.

So it’s no wonder I puzzled over the sight of those naked men in chains and made no immediate connection between them and us kids in our soiled clothes and  manacles. If anything I was intrigued and a little aroused. They were all such superb specimens of male physique, with smooth bodies and big muscles, and I couldn’t help admiring the machine-like precision as they jogged past in perfect unison.

I quickly forgot about them though, once we were inside the warehouse, which  was damp and cold and smelt of rotting wood.

We were still roped together as we were led along a dingy corridor with grubby walls and floorboards that creaked when we stepped on them.  It was like walking into a nightmare.

At the far end of the corridor, two men were waiting for us by an open door.

“Some fine looking merchandise coming your way, Boronda,” said one of them, a tall lazy fellow chewing on a matchstick and eyeing us up as we shuffled along.

“Well I hope so,” said his friend, a fat bald-headed man with short arms and big sweaty hands.“Especially after the trouble I had with the last shipment.”

The tall fellow laughed and opened the door for us. We crept through nervously while he grinned at us and then said goodbye to his friend and left.

The fat man led us into another dusty corridor where what looked like a guard in uniform was sitting with his feet up on a window ledge, reading a newspaper.

“Working late, Seňor Boronda?” he said, folding his newspaper.

“Afraid so. I need to get these shipped out tonight,”— He was pointing at us! — “I’ll try not to detain you.”

The man in uniform, who had stony features and muscles that were clearly made of iron, was dressed in what I would soon come to recognise as the standard outfit of a Slave Keeper — black combat trousers and boots, a tight black tee-shirt and a black leather holster loaded with a taser gun, an electric prod, a set of handcuffs and a thick leather strap for beating slaves with. It is an image engraved on my mind for all eternity and fills me with a kind of terror even now when I think of it. Some Keepers wear black jackets over their tee-shirts, and some wear black berets, but they are all as tough as stone, with a special kind of swagger and an overwhelming air of menace that intimidates and in a weird kind of way excites — something to do, I suppose, with the mystical connection that exists between slaves and their Keepers.

In addition, this Keeper had a bull whip tucked into his belt.

Señor Boronda was hunting through a huge bunch of keys with his stubby fingers while the Slave Keeper glared at us as though he didn’t trust us one little bit and was itching to use the bull whip on us if he got half the chance.

At last Boronda found his key, unlocked a heavy metal door and led us into his own private processing chamber.

It was small and clammy. There weren’t any windows, the walls, ceiling and floor were covered in grubby white tiles and the overhead lighting buzzed and flickered. It looked and smelt like a public toilet. There was even a narrow raised area running along one side where the urinals would have gone. On the opposite wall was a large mirror and at the far end was what looked like a shower unit without any screens or curtains.

Señor Boronda told us to stand on the narrow raised area. It was only a couple of inches high but our feet were still roped together and our hands manacled behind our backs so it wasn’t that easy. We kept getting tied up in knots. “Miguel!” shouted the Señor. “Untie their legs.”

A door in the opposite wall swung open and a boy scampered out. He bowed to his Master and whispered “Sí, Amo.” He was about eighteen, slender but tough looking. All he had on was a coarse woven tunic tied at the waist with rope. His arms, legs and feet were bare.

I’d never seen anyone dressed like this before. He looked like he’d stepped out of a history book. There was something medieval, almost religious, about the way he stooped down and unravelled the rope from our legs.

“Now remove their gags.”

Again the bow of the head and the “Sí, Amo.”

Removing the gags was always going to be a difficult moment because none of us had been able to speak a word since we’d been captured. The floodgates were about to be opened.

He began with the boy at the end nearest the door, the tough one with the torn tee-shirt. As soon as the gag was off he spat and swore and launched into a tirade of abuse aimed directly at  the Señor — who immediately went over and slapped him in the face. The boy snarled, and bit his lip but quietened down.

Next along, standing beside me, was the smart kid with the expensive clothes. When his gag came off, he launched into a speech he must have been rehearsing over and over in his head for hours.

“You’ve made a big mistake… my father is in the Policía… you have no right to keep me here… you’ll regret it if you don’t let me go…”

He got a slap as well. It shut him up for a second or two then, the idiot, he started up again.

“Put his gag back on,” growled Señor Boronda who had grabbed hold of a cane now and was swishing it about menacingly.  

“Now listen to me, muchachos. You don’t speak. Not unless I tell you to. You have nothing of the remotest interest to say to me or to anyone. You have no fathers, you have no mothers. You have nothing. You belong to me now. I own you. I’ve paid good money for you and I’ve already got a customer lined up who’ll take you off my hands. But for now you’re my property so you don’t move or do anything unless I say so.”

The bit about no mothers and fathers didn’t bother me too much. I was an orphan. What’s more I was used to being bossed around and bullied. But the rest of what he was saying was hard to get my head around.

“You don’t exist anymore in the outside world. You don’t have names. You don’t have anything. You’re slaves. A commodity to be bought and sold. There’s nothing you can do to change it. It’s all been taken care of. So the sooner you buckle down and obey your new owners the easier it will be for all of us.”

“Slave” — I kept rolling the word around in my head trying to make it mean “me”. Somehow I wasn’t the same boy I was yesterday? What had changed? Was it something I’d done wrong? And what did he mean I didn’t exist anymore? I just didn’t get it.

The Señor could see he wasn’t getting through to our thick skulls so, lowering his voice, he tried a different tack.

“Out of all the boys in the world , you have been chosen to be servants of the Reich. It’s a great honour. Your young bodies will bring happiness and prosperity to the free men who will have the good fortune, and the money, to own you. Embrace your new life and you will survive. Resist and you will be punished. Look at Miguel, he’s a slave like you and he looks happy enough, doesn’t he? Are you happy, esclavo?”

“Sí, mi Amo.”

“There you are, you see. Do as you’re told and learn to obey orders, you’ll get along fine. Otherwise,” he gestured towards the Slave Keeper who was standing in the doorway stroking the handle of his whip and glaring at us, “you’ll have him to deal with.”

To drive this point home, the Slave Keeper cracked his whip so loud it echoed round the whole warehouse and scared the living daylight out of us.

“This boy,” the Señor said, pointing a finger at the smart kid, “stays bound and gagged. But the others can be released now.”

No-one dared make a sound as Miguel pulled the tape off our mouths and unlocked the manacles from our wrists. Oh, but what a glorious release that was. How long had it been? Twenty-four hours?  More.  The smart kid must have been envious, watching us stretch our limbs and rub our sore wrists.

The relief was fleeting. Next thing, we were told to take our clothes off.  The smart kid couldn’t of course because his hands were still manacled behind his back, so it was his turn to smirk as he watched us stripping down to our socks and underwear — only to be told we had to get rid of those as well and stand there stark naked.

We laid our things in a neat pile in front of us and then stood to attention with our hands by our sides (our knuckles got rapped if we tried to cover our private parts) while Señor Boronda checked us for rings, pendants, crucifixes and any other items of body jewellery all of which he slipped into his pocket. Miguel followed him, picking up our discarded clothes and stuffing them in a plastic bag. We never saw them again.

By now the smart kid was worried. It was all very well watching us being stripped of everything we possessed but he must have been feeling a little left out. Well, don’t worry about that. The Señor handed Miguel a pair of scissors about the size of garden shears, and had him snip away at the boy’s designer clothes, reducing them to shreds in a matter of seconds and ripping them away until the poor boy was left as naked as the rest of us. His whole body was shaking with anger and he was making all kinds of noises from behind his gag. He really wasn’t taking any of this well!

The rest of us I suppose were taking it a step at a time. I didn’t mind all that much being naked. There had never been much privacy at the orphanage and I just thought maybe we were going to be given a shower and a tunic to wear like Miguel. And the fact that Miguel looked quite healthy and reasonably content with his lot, made me think that being a servant of the Reich was probably not all that bad and certainly better than being on the run or dying of hunger in the forest.

Which reminded me that I hadn’t eaten for so long I couldn’t remember when. So my spirits lifted a little more when Señor Boronda mentioned food.

“One ladle of slave fodder each, Miguel.”

The boy obediently produced a bucket full of what looked like congealed porridge. And that’s what it tasted like too. He scooped out great wodges of it with a wooden ladle which he shoved into our mouths. I nearly choked on it. I’m sure it was scientifically nutritious, but it had the consistency of wet cardboard and was very hard to swallow. Once I’d managed to get it down, though, I did feel a mite better for it.

The smart boy, of course, got nothing. (I should perhaps stop calling him that. In fact I learnt later that his name was Adolpho. His father, who was indeed quite high up in the policía, had been accused of some misdemeanour, as a result of which his son had been snatched from school and turned over to the slavers. The rough boy on the end was Rico, and, as I suspected, he had been living on the streets and had been snatched, like me. The youngster, who even now was edging closer to me, was Tomas, and the good looking, curly haired boy on the end was Luis. You will hear more of them and their stories later.)

All I needed now was something to wash the “fodder” down. I didn’t dare speak out, but the rough boy, Rico, mumbled something about “water”. I thought the Señor was going to punch him in the face again. Instead he said that we would be able to drink as much water as we liked when we were under the shower.

“Now let’s get started,” he said rubbing his hands and looking intently at each of us in turn as he settled into a small folding chair that Miguel had set down for him.

“We’ll begin with you.”

He beckoned to the curly haired boy, Luis.

“Tú, muchacho,” he said tapping his thigh as though he were summoning a pet dog, “Ven aquí.”

Read this and other stories on my blog: JOHN DEE COOPER’S ALL-MALE SLAVERY STORIES

PAULO by John Dee Cooper © 2020

Chapter 2

The truck had stopped. I could hear the ugly man and his mate chatting in the driver’s cabin. I was still lying on my stomach under the canvas, shackled and gagged but I’d no idea how far we’d travelled. My head was smarting from whatever they’d used to knock me out and I was feeling sick from the lack of air and food.

What was happening to me? Was I a hostage? Who would want to pay to have me back? Were they going to be turn me over to the policía in exchange for a reward? I couldn’t see how I’d have a price on my head. Maybe they were just thugs and they were going to rob me and leave me for dead. But why would they do that? I hadn’t got any money or valuables. I was just a poor penniless teenager. Now that I was fully conscious, I tried to squeeze my wrists out of the iron shackles, but they were way too tight. There was a chain attached to them and I tried giving that a jerk but it was fixed to the floor of the truck and I couldn’t get it loose. I even tried shaking myself free of the canvas sheet but that seemed to be tied down. It was hopeless.

The engine started up again and we drove very slowly for several metres over a bumpy road. I heard other voices and the clang of an iron gate. We drove a little further and stopped. The engine was turned off and I heard the driver and his companion get out. There were more voices and then the canvas sheet was suddenly whipped off me.

“Something we picked up on the road,” said the ugly man as he loosened the chain and unshackled my feet. “It’ll make up for yesterday’s short fall.”

He pulled me off the back of the truck. My hands were still shackled and my mouth gagged with tape. My legs were shaking and it took me a few moments to steady myself. I tried to take in my surroundings but there wasn’t much to see, only the truck in front of me and the iron gate behind. It was getting dark, probably early evening, so we must have been on the road for quite a few hours.  

“What is it?” asked a small man with a clipboard.

“Young fit male,” said the ugly man. “We can take him elsewhere if you don’t want him. But we were short on our order yesterday so you’ll probably want to hang on to him. Usual payment.”

I couldn’t make any sense of this. Were they talking about me?

“Put him over with the others,” said the man with the clipboard. “We’ll go inside and sort something out.”

He and the ugly man disappeared while the ugly man’s companion grabbed my shoulders and steered me round the side of the truck.

I’m not sure if I was horrified, or just plain dumbfounded by what met my eyes.

We were in a small dimly lit courtyard, and some twenty youngsters were huddled together against the far wall, all shackled and gagged like me. Most of them were boys but there were three young girls standing in a group apart. The boys seemed to be all ages, mostly teenagers but with a couple of  seven or eight-year-olds cowering in the shadows. They were  all very subdued and weary, and looked as if they’d been standing there all day. Some of them were glowering angrily and one or two looked as if they’d been beaten up.

I was made to stand next to one of the older teenagers.

After several minutes the ugly man came out of the building to the left of us, boarded the truck with his companion and drove off — abandoning us to our fate. I suppose in a way it was reassuring to know I wasn’t alone in my misfortune, but there was something sinister about this gaggle of frightened kids. Who were they? They couldn’t all be runaways like me. Some were so ragged and dirty they could have been dragged off the streets, but others were dressed quite smart as if  they’d come from well-to-do families. The boy next to me was wearing a football strip and looked as if he’d been dragged off the pitch in the middle of a game. Apart from the two armed guards in black combat uniforms taking it in turns to wander up and down threatening us with their guns, nothing happened for several hours. The silence was unbearable. Occasionally one of the boys would get beaten up for shuffling his feet, or attempting to sit down, but for most of the time we just stood gazing out into the courtyard, trying not to draw attention to ourselves — and trying not to pass out.

That became a real challenge for me because I was already quite faint with hunger and the iron shackles were weighing my arms down. The gag made it difficult to breath and I kept losing my balance. I couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t let us sit down. It was as if we were being kept ready to march off somewhere at any moment.

After a while I began to think the whole thing was absurd. It was just some stupid mixup. I had no business being there at all. I had to tell them that running away had been a mistake and that I was expected back at the orphanage. I had to work out who was in charge and try to get his attention.

But then the gates opened and a very smart black car with dark windows glided in. It pulled up directly in front of us and I was expecting someone important to step out. Instead the driver lowered his window and spoke to the little man with the clipboard. The back door swung open and the three girls were pushed inside.

It all happened so quickly, without hardly a word being spoken, that the rest of us just looked on in amazement. There wasn’t even enough time for the girls to put up a struggle — although they were clearly terrified. The door slammed shut, the car turned round and we watched it coast out through the gates. Before we could fully absorb what had just happened we were back to staring at the ground. It was as if the girls had never existed.  

Another couple of hours drifted by and I began to wonder if what had happened to the girls wasn’t a good omen after all. Maybe they were going to be sent home. Maybe someone had been in touch and the girls were being released. Which meant there was hope for me, if I could think of a way of communicating with the right person — get a message through to Senor Martinez at the orphanage, maybe. But somehow, the way they’d handled the girls didn’t inspire much confidence. They’d been pretty rough with them. Maybe this was some kind of terrorist organisation and we were all being used as bargaining chips.

But just as I was trying to make sense of this latest theory, another vehicle drove into the yard. This time it was a truck, like a small horse box. Two men in black shirts, riding breeches and calf-length boots stepped down from the driver’s cabin. One of them unlocked the rear doors, while the other spoke to the little man with the clipboard. It was in a language I didn’t recognise, but I guessed it was German and these men were something to do with the Reich Marshalls. Suddenly there was a frenzy of activity. Two more guards came running out of the building and together with the original two, started waving their pistols at us. The little man shouted something about getting us into a straight line. We were poked and jostled and screamed at — which is very scary when you are completely defenceless with your hands manacled behind your back and your mouth smothered in sticky tape — until we were all lined up shoulder to shoulder against the wall.

“Vier muskulösen Arbeiter; vier muskulösen Arbeiter,” the little man kept mumbling as he trotted down the line followed by the German. He was making some kind of selection. Each time he tapped a boy in the chest, that boy had to take two steps forward. He only seemed to be interested in the older, tougher looking ones, so I was relieved but not surprised when he walked straight past me.

“Nackt ausziehen!” the German shouted when there were six boys standing out front.

Nobody moved at first, mainly because they didn’t understand what he was saying. Then the little man explained in Spanish that the six boys were to strip naked so that they could be examined by the Offizier.

This of course meant their shackles had to be removed, which the little man did, one boy at a time, while the guards kept their rifles pointing at the boys’ heads.

It was a tense moment. These boys were angry and tired and were liable to cause trouble once their hands were free. But the close proximity of the rifles kept them quiet, and very slowly and begrudgingly they began to remove their clothes. It was a weird sight watching them denude themselves in front of us. It was a mild evening, but there was enough of a chill to make their flesh quiver — and I suppose having a loaded pistol pointing at your head must have been pretty unnerving.  

They had to stand with their legs spread and their fingers touching the back of their necks while the Offizier made a brief examination, back and front. He indicated the four boys he wanted by flicking their chests with the leather gloves he was holding. It was clear he was picking out the ones with the most muscle.

The selected boys were frog-marched over to the wagon. It took some doing. Their gags had been ripped off, and so they were shouting and swearing and putting up quite a fight. Canes had to be used on a couple of them to get them on board. It was extraordinary to see those strong young bodies overpowered by the men in black. It was a desperate situation and yet there was something strangely inevitable about it. I couldn’t explain it at the time.  

I had a good view of the truck from where I was standing and could see that once inside the boys’ arms were forced up so that their wrists could be manacled to hooks in the roof. They hung there like meat in a butcher’s shop, one in front of the other — except these carcasses were alive and kicking.

The truck door was slammed shut and bolted, papers were signed and the truck drove off into the night.

There was a long brooding silence. The stillness was terrifying. What fate could possibly await those boys? All my theories had been blown out of the window. I knew now we were up against something really dark. Something I didn’t understand.

One of the guards gathered up the discarded clothes and stuffed them into a black sack. Some of the clothes belonged to the two boys who’d been left behind. They protested but were told to be quiet. The little man said it wasn’t worth them getting dressed again. Instead their wrists were manacled, their mouths gagged and they were sent back to join the rest of us. They were both tough looking lads in their early twenties and even though they’d escaped the fate of the boys in the wagon, they were obviously humiliated and confused as they shuffled back towards us, unable to hide their nakedness.

A few minutes later, to my great relief, we were told we could sit down, although we had to wait while they attached our manacles to iron fixtures in the wall — so that we couldn’t make a run for it when their backs were turned, I suppose.

I made myself as comfortable as I could with my back against the wall, but the manacles didn’t make it easy. I only had a thin tee-shirt on and, as the temperature began to drop, I wished that I’d not taken my pullover off before jumping on board that truck. I’d left it in my backpack along with all my other stuff, and God knows where that was now. It was all my own fault. I should have gone back to the Orphanage when I had the chance and faced the music. Instead I had to get myself into this ridiculous mess. Time crept on and as it got darker and colder it became clear that we were going to have to spend the rest of the night sleeping, or trying to sleep, out here in the open. I felt sorry for the two naked boys. I couldn’t see them because, they were further down the line, but they must have been shivering with the cold.

The boy on my left was quite young, I should say about  thirteen or fourteen. He looked absolutely miserable, as you would expect. I wondered what his story was and how long he had been there. Had he been captured, like me, by some ruffian on the road? Was he a runaway? Perhaps he had a family who missed him and would come to rescue him? No one was going to come and rescue me. Even if by a miracle I found my way back to the orphanage, they weren’t going to welcome me with open arms. I was in deep trouble whichever way I looked.

I could see the boy was on the verge of tears. I gave him a nudge with my arm, and tried to smile — which sounds ridiculous with sticky tape covering half your face, but it seemed to work. He took a deep breath and I think he was trying to smile back. I moved in closer to him, and let him rest his head on my shoulder. It wasn’t much but that little bit of human contact was enough to release all his pent up emotion. He curled up and cried himself to sleep on my chest.

Told him your darkest desires you did…

Read this and other stories on my blog: JOHN DEE COOPER’S ALL-MALE SLAVERY STORIES

PAULO by John Dee Cooper ©2020

Chapter 1

Esta es mi historia.

Though Spanish is my native tongue, and was the only language I knew when all this began, I will tell you my story as well as I can in English.

I ran away from home when I was sixteen.

Well home…  actually it was an orphanage for boys. But it was the only place I’ve ever been able to call home.

I can’t remember my parents. Maybe they’re dead. Maybe they never existed. Who knows? Whoever they were, they didn’t want me, and no-one ever talked about them, so they might just as well never have existed.

So, as far as I can tell I was born an orphan in Northern Spain in the fifth year of occupation following the end of the Third World War — or the Great War of Liberation, depending on your standpoint. The Reich Marshals ruled us and the whole of Europe had entered das neue goldene Zeitalter as they called it.

Not that there was anything remotely golden about life in the orphanage. I got along OK, only because I didn’t know any better, but discipline was tough and we were kept under close observation and hardly ever allowed to stray outside our five mile zona de restricción. We knew nothing about the outside world, but we were fed and clothed well, and I even had my own room in the last few years. These were things that I took for granted then but which are unimaginable luxuries to me now.

By the way,  my name is Paulo. At least that was what they called me at the orphanage. I’ve been given lots of different names since then, and sometimes I haven’t had a name at all, just a number. But Paulo is what I started out with, and you can call me that, although sometimes the sound of it makes me sad to think how things used to be and how everything might have turned out differently if I hadn’t decided to run away.

The thing is, I was getting too old. There were only a few boys my age left in the orphanage. Usually you were sent out into the world by the time you were fifteen, but I managed to stay on by helping Senor Martinez. He was the senior mentor and I used to help him look after some of the younger boys who were having problems. He said that I was bright and resourceful and could do anything I wanted to do if I put my mind to it. But truthfully I was too scared to leave. It was safe there. The world outside was a mystery to me.

Then rumours started circulating that the Reich Marshals were about to close the orphanage and we’d all be sent off to labour camps. I didn’t know if it was true, but the prospect scared me and I wasn’t going to hang around long enough for it to happen.  

So late one night I took off.

There were three of us to begin with. I was the youngest, and I think the other two only let me string along because I was good at reading maps. We headed for the great forest that lay just to the west of the orphanage and to begin with it was like some great adventure. We lived like bandidos. We foraged for food, built camp fires and slept under the stars. The idea was that we would head for the French border. I don’t know what we would have done if we had ever got there because none of us could speak French, and in any case we didn’t have a compass, so despite having a perfectly good map we kept arguing about which direction we were going. They ended up blaming me for getting us lost and I woke up one morning to find they’d run off and left me, taking the map with them and the little provisions we had left.

At first I was angry and wasted time trying to follow their tracks, but without the map I soon lost all sense of where I was. I began to despair of ever getting out of the forest alive. I even thought of heading back to the orphanage (if I could find my way there) and handing myself in. At least that way I’d get a square meal. But I would have to face Senor Martinez and the thought of having disappointed him, and what they might do to punish me soon put that idea out of my head. I had some vague recollection of someone once saying that I had relatives down south, so in the absence of any better plan, I decided to head in that direction. It must have been a couple of days later that I ran into the two men with the truck. It turned out that I wasn’t very good at gathering food in the wild so by then I was desperately hungry. I wanted nothing more than to get back to civilisation.

The truck was parked in a small clearing. It was the sort builders use - small and open at the back. The driver and his companion were leaning against the side, enjoying a cigar. They weren’t in uniform and there were no markings on the truck, so I was pretty confident they had nothing to do with the policía. All the same I wasn’t so sure about giving myself away just yet, so if this was going to be my escape, I’d have to wait for the right moment and stow away undetected. There was a loose canvas cover at the back. It would be easy to creep under it and hide.

I waited till they had finished their smoke and were climbing back into the driver’s cabin. Then I snuck up behind, clambered aboard and slid under the canvas. I had no idea where they were going, but anywhere would be better than the damp forest, which by now had lost all of its adventurous appeal.  

It was warm and snug under the canvas, and we hadn’t travelled very far before I drifted off to sleep. I dreamt I was back in the forest, hacking my way through undergrowth until I found myself on the edge of a hill. I could see a village tucked away in the valley below. I scrambled down towards it and as I walked through the empty streets, I felt disappointed that there was no one there to greet me. All the windows were closed and shuttered and the only sound came from my boots as they scraped against the cobbles. Suddenly I was scared. It was a trick. I’d been led to the wrong place. Then someone began to laugh and a hand grabbed my neck.

I woke up with a start and found myself staring into the ugliest face I’d ever seen.

“¿Qué tenemos aqui?” it grunted, with a grin so broad it made me shudder. “Looks like we’ve caught a rabbit on the run.”

“Well, it’s not going to run much further, is it,” came a voice from outside the truck. “It’s just what we’re looking for. ¿Quién es?”

“Who are you?” repeated the man with the ugly face.

Desperately I tried to think of something to say. I could tell they weren’t policía - in fact I would probably have felt less alarmed if they had been - I didn’t like the look of them one little bit.

I mumbled something about hitch-hiking my way across country to visit my cousin, as I hadn’t got any money for the train journey. I was sorry for stowing away on their truck and I didn’t want to cause any trouble. I tried to make a dash for it but the ugly one grabbed my ankle and hauled me back on board. “You aren’t going anywhere, chico. You’re staying with us.”

“He’s a good looking catch,” said his mate. “Tough little mocoso. Shall we chain him up?” “You bet!”

And before I knew what was going on they had twisted me over onto my stomach, snapped iron clamps round my wrists and ankles and stuck adhesive tape over my mouth.

Read this and previous chapters of THE RETREAT on my blog: JOHN DEE COOPER’S ALL-MALE SLAVERY STORIES

THE RETREAT by John Dee Cooper ©2019

15. It was never quite clear to Andy what had been going on that night in the Barn. All he’d been able to think about as he hung there blinded by the hood was the soreness of the ropes, the cramp in his arms, and the stabbing in his back as he heaved himself up to relieve some of the weight off his chest. And then the long, agonising wait for something to happen. Because he knew he and the other two boys had been strung up there for a purpose. They were part of the evening’s entertainment. He knew that. But what were they going to do to him — and when?  It was all part of Master Charles’ plan to punish and torment him. That’s all he could think of.

Several times he’d fallen unconscious under the pressure of the pain, and his head had became a wilderness of feverish shapes and phantoms. At one point he could actually feel his body floating and he’d wondered if he were dead. But then something sharp hit him in the chest. It carried an electric shock with it that wrenched through his whole body. He could hear himself screaming. Then there were more shots. He tried to coil himself out of the line of fire, but he was losing strength and the rope was tearing at his skin. He could hear the boys on either side of him. They were under attack too and for a while he was glad that they seemed to be getting the worst of it.  

It was when the hoods came off that he saw the sickening truth. It was Master Paul. He was aiming a crossbow right at him. He was standing in a narrow pool of light, but it was Master Paul alright, using him for target practice. Another shot hit him in the belly, ricocheting through his guts. One caught him on the inside of his leg narrowly missing his balls. He tugged at the ropes and twisted his hips to shield himself from the third shot which hit him on the fleshy part of his left buttock.

He probably passed out briefly at that point. The effort of howling alone was enough to make his head spin. There were voices all around him. Fingers pushing and poking. Then they cut the ropes and he fell into someone’s arms. Master Paul’s? It didn’t feel like him. He was dragged feet first across the concrete floor. His head bumped on something hard and that’s when it went totally blank.

Next thing he knows, he’s propped up against the wall of one of the cellars in the basement of the old house, his body turned to concrete. Even raising his eyelids sends shivers of pain down the back of his head and neck. He shivers and feels sick.

Why had Master Paul turned against him like that?

There were lots of other boys in the cellar, including the two who had been crucified alongside him. They were all badly mewed up. The Slave Keeper was going round assessing their condition. He was tutting to himself and grumbling about the waste. A young slave was trotting behind him with a bowl of coloured liquid. At first Andy thought it was soup. It turned out to be red dye which the slave daubed on the most hopeless cases.

What this meant came clear when the Colonel poked his head round the door to see how much damage had been done to his stock of slaves after the night’s revels.

“Well two of them are hardly worth keeping,” said the Slave Keeper pointing to the ones with splashes of red dye. “Shall we sell them as wastage or do you want me to have them put down?”

The Colonel considered for a moment.

“Give them to the Bronson brothers. They’re good customers. They’ve been bragging about how they can strangle a boy single handed. It’ll give them something to practice on. Might even be worth watching. What about Charles Schmitt’s boy?”

“That one?” said the Slave Keeper pointing at Andy. “He’s a mess but still usable. We can have him ready for renting out again by Monday.”

“No, Schmitt wants the Bronsons to have him as well.”

“I thought he was the nephew’s treat.”

“Not any longer. Apparently Schmitt lost him in a game of bows and arrows, or something. So long as they pay me, I don’t care what they do with him.”

Andy listened to them and pretended they were talking about someone else. It didn’t work.

At least they let him rest for the remainder of the night, which was something — though trying to sleep naked on a stone floor is hardly restful. And there was no food. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten anything.

And the following day? Well that had been one long nightmare. There was a cold shower and a brief workout that didn’t do much to raise his spirits. Then about midday they put him in a room with three other boys.

Though big enough to accommodate a large brown leather sofa, two armchairs and a modestly-stocked drinks cabinet, the room was compact and bare. There were no windows. The floor was tiled and the walls were padded, with two large mirrors on either side. A locked cupboard dominated the far end, and there were ropes, chains, whips and other paraphernalia dotted about the place. It was one of several private playrooms available for the use of paying guests.

During a wait that lasted almost two hours none of the boys spoke a word or moved from their spot, even though there was no one there to stop them. Maybe they were too caught up in their own fears and fantasies. When every other part of your body and person is at the disposal of others, your private thoughts and dreams are more precious to you than anything, and a wise slave keeps them locked away and never shares them. Anyway what was there to talk about?

Eventually the door opened and three men sauntered  in. One of them was Master Charles. Andy assumed the other two were the Bronson brothers he’d heard the Colonel talk about. They looked like brothers. They poured themselves drinks and the three of them spent the next hour or so sitting and talking, paying no heed to the naked boys standing nervously to attention a few feet away from them. Paul’s name was mentioned a few times and Andy wasn’t sure how he’d react if he were suddenly to appear.

“So let’s have some fun with these four little beauties,” said one of the Bronsons, at last turning his attention to the boys. “Are you going to join us for some entertainment before you leave, Charles? We have one or two friends dropping by later.”

Charles declined. He had to catch an early train. He made his farewells and left . What exactly went on during the rest of the afternoon was something of a mystery to Andy because without any warning he and one of the other boys were gagged and had rubber masks pulled over their heads. The masks covered their faces completely so that they couldn’t see and had difficulty hearing. They would have suffocated as well if it hadn’t been for a concealed tube that allowed them to breath through their noses. They were pushed back against the wall and covered in a giant rubber sheet that stretched across both their bodies. The sheet was sealed and the air pumped out, squeezing them into tightly moulded effigies, like carved reliefs on a monument.

It happened so quickly Andy had no time to be scared but he was completely stunned for several minutes, isolated in a world of darkness and confusion. The vacuum had sucked the rubber sheet so tightly around his body it was crushing him and making it impossible to make even the slightest movement. The thin column of air brushing his nostrils was his only life line and he gave it all his attention, trying to stay calm and not choke on the gag.

What kind of torture was this? A living burial? He half expected them to start shooting at him like before. But there was nothing. Only darkness and silence.

Then he felt a weird sensation around his testicles. Something was brushing against them. Fingers. That’s when he realised that his balls were on the outside. They’d been pushed through an air-tight hole in the rubber sheet along with his cock. They were hanging loose and accessible while the rest of him was locked away under a tight rubber shroud.

He could feel his cock being stroked — stiffening up. There was nothing he could do about it . He couldn’t back away or shift his position. He just had to let whatever was happening happen and try to maintain some kind of control.

There were long periods when they left him alone. He could hear muffled sounds in the room and the odd laugh. Then more voices, louder and more animated. There were scuffles and howls of pain. They must be torturing the other boys.

Then suddenly they’d be on him again, playing with his cock, tugging at his balls, stroking, beating, sucking. There was a lot of sucking. How many tongues were there? It drove him to the edge so many times and yet he didn’t know whether he was meant to hold back or shoot off into their mouths. He chewed on his gag and gripped his muscles. He was suffocating inside his rubber shroud, but he had to keep a hold.  

Gradually the voices in the room got louder and more numerous. These must be the friends the Bronsons had said were going to drop by and they all seemed to want to play with his cock at some time or other. At one point, he wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard Master Paul’s voice in amongst them. He seemed quite angry and was arguing with one of the Bronson’s. He left soon after and then there was a lot of excitement as some new slaves were brought in. They were panic-stricken by the sound of it, moaning hysterically — until they were silenced with what sounded like some heavy punching. These must be the boys with the red dye marks, thought Andy, the ones the Colonel had handed over to the Bronson brothers to get rid of.

He listened nervously to what was going on inches away from him. He could hear every thump, every fumble, every groan. Was that the sound of the boys being strangled? If so, it sounded as if they were being fucked as well! By now the room was full of people and Andy could sense them moving around him, occasionally leaning on him, as though oblivious to his presence so focussed were they on what was happening in the room. Then, just as things were getting intense and the voices had fallen to a low murmur, someone took hold of his cock — which despite all his efforts to stay in control was by now rock hard — and began to jerk him off.

It was his own moans now that drowned out his ears as he curled and heaved and strained against the heavy binding rubber, drawing in air from the breathing tube, biting down hard on the gag, clenching his muscles and summoning all his strength as his cock thrust deep into the fist that held it until he could contain it no longer and it spat out great gobs of cum in uncontrolled sobs of anger and frustration. For several long minutes his galloping heartbeat continued to thunder in his ears and the air kept burning in his nostrils as he struggled to regain his breath. When at last his body settled down he became aware of a silence in the room, broken only by the low murmur of voices in conversation, some heavy thumps and what he imagined to be the sound of bodies being dragged out of the room.

Read this and previous chapters of THE RETREAT on my blog: JOHN DEE COOPER’S ALL-MALE SLAVERY STORIES

THE RETREAT by John Dee Cooper © 2019

14.

Unsure exactly where they were heading, or if he was ever going to set eyes on his boy again, Paul followed Charles and Geoffrey through the concealed doorway at the back of the Barn. Confused noises — laughter, muffled screams and a sharp sound like the snapping of wood –- came from behind the closed door at the foot of a dimly lit staircase.

Their descent was hindered by the boy that Geoffrey had picked out to bring down with him. His hands and feet were in chains — at Geoffrey’s insistence — which made it difficult for him to negotiate the steps. He was a handsome muscular boy, well endowed with a meaty cock. There were visible scars on his body that suggested he was no stranger to the Barn vaults.

Passing through the door at the bottom of the staircase, they found themselves on a ledge overlooking a subterranean chamber, the further reaches of which were lost in darkness. The area closest to them was bathed in an eerie blue light and was bustling with activity. Guests, many of them still wearing their Arabian Night costumes, were leading slaves around on leashes watched over by three or four men in black leather brandishing whips and canes. The activity was focussed around six large booths, three on either side. Only when Paul followed the others down to floor level did he get a full sense of the intoxicating atmosphere, the excited murmur of the guests, the drone of boys groaning, pleading — screaming!

This was a torture chamber!

Paul’s first instinct was to turn round and run back upstairs. This wasn’t for him. The granite faces and fixed stares of the guests dragging frightened boys around made him feel uncomfortable. The only thing that stopped him making his escape was Charles’s hand on his shoulder.

“Take it easy,” said Charles. “It’s not as terrifying  as it sounds. The slaves make a lot of noise, but it’s all part of the game.”

“What game?”

“Survival,” said Charles with a grin. “Come and have a closer look.”

Reluctantly Paul followed his uncle round from booth to booth but found little to settle his qualms. Everywhere healthy young bodies were being tortured, crushed and mangled, lashed with whips, burnt with hot wax, electrocuted or simply being used as punch bags.

In one booth Paul watched a boy being dangled upside down over a tank of water. His wrists were bound to his thighs so there was nothing he could do to protect himself as he was lowered headfirst into the water. Paul couldn’t see the point of it, but neither could he take his eyes off the slave’s sleek muscular body tensing up as he struggled to keep the water out of his lungs despite being beaten and prodded by the two men who were playing with him. Several times he tried to lift his head out of the water but was roughly forced back down.

“He’s a tough beauty, this one,” said the man holding him down when he noticed Paul hovering. “They don’t usually last more than four or five dips before they go limp. This one’s been under so many times I’ve lost count. If you put your hand on his stomach you can feel his muscles bunching up in panic. Do you want to see him come? He’s got a hungry cock that just gets harder and harder. We’ve worked him off twice already.”

But Paul had seen enough. The boy had gone into spasms, thrashing about trying to get his head out of the water, to the delight of the two men who were stroking his cock and rubbing his balls with glee. Paul wanted to grab hold of them, fling them out of the way and stop the boy from drowning. Instead he backed out of the booth and left them to it. He walked straight into Geoffrey who was dragging his boy about on a chain.

“Can’t make up my mind what to do with him,” he said. “Most of the booths are taken up. I’m waiting for a gap. What do you think? I rather fancy doing something with his balls,” he said, grabbing the boy’s testicles. “They’re big and bouncy. I fancy stringing him up by them, see how far they’ll stretch — or there’s that thing they have with screws for squashing balls. I think there’s one round here somewhere. I’ve always wanted to have a go at that.”

Paul said nothing. He could see that the boy was trying desperately not to react to what the old man was saying, although he must be churning up inside, thought Paul. What a contrast between his cool control and the lecherous ramblings of the old fool who had him in his clutch.

“Have you seen my uncle?” asked Paul. He was sick of all this cold, heartless cruelty and just wanted to get away.

“He’s down the end there, playing with a crossbow of all things!”

Paul’s immediate thought was to leave his uncle to it and find his own way back to the house, but he still needed the old man’s good favour and didn’t want to upset him, so, turning a deaf ear to the mounting cacophony of shrieks and groans, and trying not to look at the trolleys piling up with limp, possibly lifeless, bodies, he went in search of Charles.

What upset Paul more than anything else was the contempt these stony-hearted guests seemed to have for the slaves that had been put at their disposal. They appeared to have no inkling how privileged they were. Of course they had every right to inflict pain on the boys if they wanted to, they were slaves after all, but surely there should be a genuine purpose behind it, and if that purpose was to gain pleasure then that pleasure had to be on a higher level of sensitivity than the blind brutality that was on display here. Apart from anything else it was a terrible waste of healthy slave stock. He wondered what the Baron would think about it. No wonder he’d stayed away. He was a man who appreciated the true value of a slave.

He found his uncle at the far end, past the last of the booths, standing in front of a curtain with two of his cronies. He was holding a crossbow, just as Geoffrey had said. He was aiming it through a gap in the curtain and his cronies were egging him on. He took the shot and they shouted “Bravo!”

“Ah, here he is,” exclaimed Charles, catching sight of Paul. “I thought I’d lost you. Come and look at this.”

Paul was about to make his excuses and leave when he paused in astonishment. Through the gap in the curtains he could see, buried in a pool of soft light at the far end of what looked like a second dark chamber, three naked bodies hanging on crosses, with hoods draped over their heads. At first Paul thought they were wooden effigies then he noticed one of them move. They were real. This was some kind of archery game with living slaves as targets. Paul was speechless.

“It’s really quite simple to get the hang of,” explained Charles holding out the crossbow, clearly expecting Paul to want to have a shot himself. “There’s a telescopic eye-piece and it sends a laser beam to help you find your target. But don’t worry. They’re not real arrows. They’re electrically charged darts that just pierce the flesh enough to administer a nasty shock. Cunning little beast.”

Paul muttered something about not feeling too good and needing to get some fresh air, but Charles was having none of it. He thrust the crossbow into Paul’s hands and took him to one side.

“Don’t be a fool. You’ve made a good impression so far. These fellows have influence. You don’t want to behave like an idiot in front of them. Enter into the spirit of the game.  Have some fun. You don’t have to hit anything. Just look as if you’re enjoying yourself.”

Right now Paul hated his Uncle. He hated this place. He wished he’d never come here. But his life was a mess and his uncle was the only one who could help. He had to play along. Once he’d got back on his feet then he could take control of his life. Maybe get in touch with the Baron. Yes, the Baron…

“Alright. So how does it work?” he said at last. “Good boy. Here let me show you.”

Peering through the tiny lense, Paul was confronted with the close-up of a living torso. He was pointing the crossbow at the boy on the far left, intending to hit the section of wooden cross just above his head, but something made his eye linger on the boy’s body. It hung so still and vulnerable Paul wondered if the boy was already unconscious. He was breathing — he could see the stomach move — but there was something of the likeness of a corpse about it, the way the head drooped and the arms were stretched taught and the knees were buckled. Like all the slaves in this weird establishment, the boy had the smooth body of an athlete. He was also sporting an erection which Paul found curious. Perhaps the darts were harmless after all.

He fingered the trigger nervously. The tiny red laser spot was hovering around the boy’s navel. Charles was leaning in and whispering, “Just squeeze gently” and before Paul could stop    himself the shot was on its way hitting its mark smartly with an impact that rippled through the boy’s entire body. There was a muffled yelp. The boy hauled himself up to catch his breath and with an immense and painful effort shifted his position, then after a second’s pause was still again, moaning pitifully underneath his hood.

Paul relaxed his hold on the trigger and took a deep breath. That had been more exhilarating than he had expected.

“Bulls-eye!” exclaimed one of his uncle’s friends who had been following the shot with a tiny pair of binoculars.

“Super shot!” cried the other, giving Paul a triumphant pat on the back.

“He’s a natural. Straight off the mark! ” said Charles proudly. “Paul, meet Mike and Tom Bronson. Old friends of mine.”

The brothers said they’d heard a lot about Paul from his uncle, who had been singing his praises. They hoped they’d get to know each other a whole lot better.

“Now how about going for the middle one?” Charles whispered.

He’s up to something, thought Paul. “Why are they wearing hoods?” he asked.

Charles said it was so they couldn’t tell when the next shot was going to be fired. Paul wasn’t convinced that was the only reason, but at least it was clear now that the darts only caused superficial damage to the slaves — and it was certainly a novel sport. Using living flesh as a target was pretty exhilarating.

Following his uncle’s suggestion, he focussed on the boy in the middle. There was something familiar about him, but it was difficult to be certain because the body was constantly moving. It was more contorted than the others and seemed to be struggling with a lot more pain. Then Paul noticed  there was no actual cross. The boy was suspended in mid-air with his ankles fixed in such a way as to make it impossible for him to hold himself upright for more than a few seconds. It was annoying and made him a difficult target, so Paul switched to the boy on the right, who was spread out on a normal cross, and shot him in the chest. The boy howled a lot and threw himself about but like the first one quickly settled down again.

While he reloaded, his uncle explained about the “crucifixion without a cross” and how the slave’s continual shifting made him a challenging target.

“Now let’s make it a bit more interesting,” he said, with a wink to his friends. “These gentlemen have wagered that you can’t hit the middle boy with three clear shots, one in the stomach and one on each thigh.”

“Well, I think we’re getting a little bit ahead of ourselves,” Paul protested. “I’ve only just got the hang of it. It’s hardly a fair bet.”

“Nonsense. I know you can do it. Three shots. Stomach and both thighs. They’ve generously wagered enough to cover your debts. If you succeed you’ll be made up.”

“And if I fail…?”

“Well — I lose and you’ll get nothing. Don’t worry, I’ll find another way to win the money back — I always do! And you’ll just have to hang on to your creditors a bit longer.”

“I don’t know…”

“I’ll buy the slave for you as well, if we win, as a little extra reward.”

“Well…”

“Ah, now,” said one of the cronies, “if the slave is going to be part of the bet then I think we should have him if you lose.”

Charles seemed satisfied with that and they shook hands. The bet was sealed.

Paul was feeling under pressure now.

“I don’t know that this is a good idea,” he protested.

“Have another look at the target” said Charles, signalling to someone on the other side of the curtain. “I think you might change your mind.” When Paul looked again, the hoods had been removed. The three figures were looking more human, as human as slaves can ever look, and more pathetic, with misery sketched all over their faces. They must have been suffering a long time, thought Paul.  

It took him a while to register who the middle boy was, but when he did he realised with a flash of anger that his uncle had set all this up. It was another one of his tests. He’d kept the boy hidden, probably tortured him, and now he’d had him crucified and to win him back Paul was going to have to shoot him in the legs and stomach.

Was it worth it? The boy was so wrought and twisted that he hardly resembled the boy that had been such a delight to play with last night. There was even something extremely unattractive in the way his body kept lurching about on the ropes.

Paul was all ready to storm off and let the boy suffer his fate, when it occurred to him that by doing so his uncle would probably lose the bet by default and there would be no money to bail him out. He’d be right back in the same old mess as when he started.

IT must learn to accept the reality of ITs situation.  ITs life has been irrevocably altered. IT will never again be free. IT belongs to him now.

One day he is admired, cherished, adored… and the next… tossed aside for the newer, younger, prettier…