Duped – Part 8

As the inspections begin, Matt learns the daily routine of a soon-to-be sold slave and delves deeper into a slave's mindset.

Duped - Part 8
by Chrisus
Series: Duped
Art piece by Joji
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It's been a long sleepless night spent in a slave-pen with Mustapha's six waiter slaves. Like me all are naked and much stressed. After their arrival in Maluchistan, they'd been brought straight from the airport to the slave-market. Once there, they'd been stripped naked, body shaved and placed in this pen. Now all seven of us await our ultimate fates; we are to be sold at auction two days from now.

Around me, locked in identical pens, are another twenty-seven slaves who are to share in our fate.

Apart from our naked, hairless bodies we have a number of things in common. Foremost among these is that, without exception, we are all young and perfect, physical specimens of the Caucasian race. That of course, is the main reason for our presence in these slave-pens; this market deals exclusively in prime, white, male slaves who are destined to become the servants and sexual playthings of either Arab or Black African masters.

We are an eclectic lot and later, speaking to my brothers in bondage, I will learn we are from many places. Among the six waiters are young men from Germany, Ireland, the UK, the USA, Russia and South Africa. Unlike me, none of them were duped into slavery by a wily and cunning Arab posing as a friend; rather all six were "gathered up" - a euphemism used by the slavers to describe their nefarious activities - and consigned to Malik's slave-market in Maluchistan.

All six waiters tell me they are familiar with this place. Just twelve months ago, they were kidnapped and consigned here and sold to Mustapha. Once purchased, they'd been placed under the control Mustapha's two sons, Hussein and Omar and forced to work in the kitchens of his London restaurant. Here they worked helping to prepare the food for the specialist chef and his two apprentices - all three of whom were Arabs - and made to serve as general kitchen hands. The three Arabs chefs had complete mastery over them and ruled them with rods of iron. The kitchen was equipped with a variety of rattan canes, leathers straps and wooden paddles which were frequently used to discipline them and to hurry them along in their duties.

They were housed on the premises in a windowless dormitory just under the roof. Each night, they and the six waiters were stripped naked, fitted with shackles and chained to ringbolts securely fastened into strong beams and for bedding each had a straw filled hessian mattress and one blanket to keep him warm.

Altogether they served for twelve months under the stern discipline of Mustapha and his two sons. Their lives as Mustapha's slaves had consisted of unremitting hard labour and harsh punishments. Such personal milestones as birthdays and the main Western festivals were no longer observed. As slaves these things served as a distraction to their main duties of working and adding to their Master's fortunes.

At the end of the first six months, they graduated to the dining-room where they served as waiters while newly acquired slaves took their places in the kitchen. Now, in line with Mustapha's policy of introducing "new faces" into his restaurant every six months, they are to be sold.

All six are anxious about their future prospects and extremely fearful of their new owners. I am aware of their anxiety and this feeds my own uncertainty and fear. But truthfully, I am too traumatized to be overly concerned with their fates. My own future weighs heavily on my mind and the changed circumstances of my life leave me feeling most vulnerable.

My new, unaccustomed nakedness feeds my sense of worthlessness and the blistering brand on my left flank throbs with painful intensity and is a constant reminder of yesterday's events. My feverish night had been restless and sleep for the most part had eluded me. All around me I'd listened to the sad sounds of my fellow slaves; I heard their snoring, their coughing, their farting and their pitiful whimpering in their sleep as they nostalgically dreamt of families and loved ones from whom they'd been cruelly parted. I listened as, in their sleep, they implored absent mothers and fathers to come and set them free. Their sad dreams have been replaced by hideous nightmares that now condemn them to live out their days in vile slavery.

Eventually, I'd drifted into a fitful sleep and I only awoke as dawn's first light pierced the gloom of my prison. I'd awoken and momentarily thought all was well with me. At first, I imagined I was back in my London apartment sleeping between soft, finely spun, cotton sheets in my bedroom overlooking the Thames River. As I drowsily stretched to ease my sleep-cramped limbs, the straw bedding prickled my nakedness and I'd been startled into full wakefulness. Then, the full horror of my situation returned.

Mustapha's six slaves are already awake and one is straddling the sewage drain to relieve his overfull bladder. There's no privacy afforded him and he pisses in full sight of his fellow slaves; I watch in dismay knowing that I must soon join him in so public a display that will show me there is no false modesty for a slave. My own bladder is full to capacity but before I can empty it, I will have to wait until my usual, early morning erection subsides.

Embarrassed by my raging "hard-on", I try to cover it, as best I can behind my cupped hands. But then I notice some of my cellmates also sport erections that, at the very least rival my own and that they show no signs of shame.

Of course, they have been slaves for far longer than me - for twelve months whereas I have been a slave for less than twenty-four hours - and so they are more "at ease" with their bodies than I am. It occurs to me that I must now adjust my mindset to that of my fellow slaves. Total slave nakedness is to be my permanent state and I must now learn to display my nude body with the same nonchalance as they do.

All about me, the unhappy inmates of the other pens stir into wakefulness and begin to robotically pace around the perimeters of their cells - as though waiting for something to happen - or to listlessly stare out through the bars into the gloomy passageway which bisects the slave-holding pens.

It's true to say I have never felt as alone or as vulnerable as I do. My sense of betrayal at Anwar's hands is uppermost in my thoughts and it feeds the mounting panic that I feel. What new horrors will today bring? Surely, nothing can surpass yesterday's happenings?

In despair, I look at my cellmates and for the first time I get to appraise them. Previously, I'd seen them dressed as waiters in Mustapha's London restaurant and while their clothing hadn't completely obscured their muscular physiques, I'm now able to see - and appreciate - them in all their naked glory.

They are a very mixed bunch and their facial features tell me they are representative of several races; some are thin faced with aquiline noses while others have the broader countenances of the Slavic race. But all are incredibly handsome and were obviously handpicked for slavery for their masculine, good looks and strong, muscular bodies. Their cropped hair colours also vary from lustrous black through varying shades of brown to the silver- gold, finely spun, silky hair of the Slav. One in particular stands out; he is the tow haired slave who'd had his ass enthusiastically groped by Mustapha during my first ever visit to his restaurant with Anwar some months ago.

It seems improbable that it's only three months or so since that fateful, first night when Anwar had demonstrated chattel slavery for the very first time by exposing me to these six young men and later taking me to his home where I'd encountered his slave, Sven. Then, I'd been flattered by Anwar's attention; now I recognize it as a cunning ploy to ensnare me into my own slavery.

Improbable as that may seem, the reality is that, like them, I am now a naked slave about to be sold at auction to the highest bidder.

My sense of awful loneliness is palpable and I am overwhelmed by self-pity. At first, my eyes merely brim with tears of self-pity but then the fearful reality of my situation hits home and I sit in a corner of the pen where I draw up my knees, hug them to my chest and bury my face in my folded arms.

As my silent sobs convulse my trembling body and with my head bowed, I don't notice, the tow haired slave detach himself from his companions and sit at my side. I am suddenly aware of a comforting arm being placed across my heaving shoulders and I hear a sympathetic voice tell me.

"Hi, I'm Finbar! It's best to cry it out and get it out of your system. Until you do, you can't move on."

Finbar speaks with a lilting Irish brogue and the feel of his arm resting over my shoulder is cathartic. Suddenly, the floodgates of my emotions burst open and like an incoherent torrent, my words just tumble out. I'm not aware of what I am saying; all I know is that for the first time since my enslavement someone is showing compassion to me. And I am so grateful!

So great is my need for even a small measure of kindness, that I turn and take Finbar in a firm embrace. His powerful arms encircle me and I snuggle my head against his broad chest. I feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing and the strong, rhythmic beating of his heart and in both, there is solace for me!

I'm not sure for how long we remain in this tight embrace. Probably just minutes although it does seem much longer. The physical contact with Finbar is therapeutic. He calms me by soothingly stroking my back much as one does with a frightened animal and I respond to his ministrations by resting my head against the warm hardness of his chest. I drink in the manly smell of his body and as my tears subside I find myself being aroused by his nearness.

He disentangles our embrace and taking my head in his strong hands, he positions it so that we have eye to eye contact. His handsome face is wreathed in a broad, welcoming smile and his blue eyes twinkle as I reach out and touch his stubbled chin. He asks my name.

"Okay, I've told you my name, now tell me yours?"

"Matthew!" I blurt out. "It's Matthew but my friends call me Matt."

"Then I'll call you Matt too. Actually, the other guys," and he gesticulates towards the other five slaves, "find Finbar a bit of a mouthful and so they call me Fin. You can too if you like."

"Thanks Fin, I'd like that."

And I smile for the first time since yesterday's grim happenings. But there is something so immensely likeable about Fin that inspires my confidence and is giving me strength.

"So Matt. Let me introduce you to the other guys."

We disentangle and climb to our feet and for the next few minutes Fin introduces me to my brothers in misfortune. I learn that they are indeed "multi-national". There is Andrew from Alabama, Holger from Cologne, Mark from Manchester, Sergei from St Petersburg and Wickus an Afrikaner from Johannesburg.

They are indeed the international face of Arab slavery and I have joined their unhappy group.

All six of the former waiter slaves are down to earth and immensely likeable. Their slave's nakedness doesn't trouble them as they move unselfconsciously around our pen and my initial shame at my nakedness dissipates as I realize they are unaffected by it. I am learning that nudity is a slave's natural state and I need have no sense of embarrassment at my own nakedness. And to be truthful, I find their presence to be powerfully erotic. As I look at their hairless bodies I can, without any guilt, appreciate their good looks, superb physiques and generous genitalia which are on prominent display. And of course, they all have the delightfully curvaceous asses which are much appreciated by our Arab masters.

And strangely, I have a sense of satisfaction and pleasure in knowing that my own body is considered by Malik, the slave-dealer, to be at least the equal of these prime slaves. As I look at them, I realize that I am in good company.

My companions ply me with questions about my background and how I have become a slave. They listen sympathetically as I tell them about Anwar's duplicity and of how he'd "befriended" then cruelly duped me and brought me to Maluchistan under false pretences and how less than twenty-four hours ago he'd enslaved me.

In turn, I listen to how they'd become slaves. In all instances their tales are distressing and bitterly I reflect on the deviousness of the Arab mind. They'd been gathered up off the streets or in clubs and found themselves consigned to the Middle-east and Malik's slave- market.

I'd forgotten that this process isn't new to them. They'd previously been held in these pens and just twelve months ago, they stood on the auction-block as they were sold to Mustapha. Questions tumble through my mind. I have so many to ask and I need answers.

My first question is how they can remain so cheerful under the heavy burden of their slavery.

It is Andrew who answers.

"Matt, it's because we have no other choice but to accept that we are slaves! "

His answer is direct and very succinct. I suspect he is telling me that I must do the same and I ask.

"But, how do you adjust to becoming a slave?"

"Matt, I'll admit that, at first, it is hard." Andrew replies. "The first few days of my slavery were traumatic as they will be for you, Matt. But keep in mind that you are now a slave and that you'll never be set free. From now on you'll always be just property that belongs to another. You have to make the most of your situation and make it work to your advantage."

"You mean that I am Anwar's property?"

My voice reflects my bitterness and my words are more of a statement of the reality of my situation than an answer.

"Exactly, Matt! Today you belong to him," it is Fin who answers, "but on Saturday, you'll have a new master just like the rest of us."

"Look guys, it's true that Matt has some adjusting to do," Mark speaks with a pronounced Mancurian accent, "but he's got more immediate problems to deal with, hasn't he?"

"What are they?" I ask.

"Well, you have to get through the next few days leading up to the auction." Mark continues. "Beginning today, most likely you'll be inspected - perhaps even taken for a test fuck by a prospective buyer - and then there's the actual sale itself for you to deal with. Perhaps it would be better if we tell Matt what will happen today."

"I think you are right, Mark." Fin agrees. "It would be better if we tell Matt what will happen today. That way, he'll be prepared."

We gather in a rough circle - and I draw strength from my new friends - as they outline the monotonous, never-changing routine of the slave-pens. Soon, they tell me, the overseers will feed us our morning food ration of gruel, black bread and dates. One of them - I'm not sure who - jokingly tells me of the laxative effects of this diet on our bowels. Then after we have eaten, the occupants of each cell are taken to the ablution block where they are shaved, showered before being douched out, lubricated and made ready for any close quarter encounters with a prospective buyer. Fin warns me that this will probably happen to me and I recall Malik's words to my Master that I am to be inspected by two prospective buyers today. And yet the prospect of an enema at the hands of our overseers is daunting and I express my disquiet at the prospect.

But Holger, speaking in German, tells me.

"My friend, I can assure you after you've had a nozzle shoved up your ass and your rectum pumped full of warm, soapy water three times, you'll be glad when it's a real cock that's stuffing you."

I guess to be forewarned is to be forearmed!

And it's not as though I'm unused to being fucked. Mostly, in the past, it had been by mutual consent between two willing partners. However, yesterday afternoon, I'd been slave raped by my Master, Anwar and common sense tells me that is to be the pattern of my future life as a slave. Undoubtedly, I will be bought as a sex slave and my new Master will use my body as a receptacle for his lust; that will be my primary role to provide my Master with pleasure.

Despite my revulsion and overall fear of slavery, I had felt a frisson of excitement as I'd submitted to Anwar. Although a contradiction in terms, I was both repulsed and elated as he'd fucked me. The free man in me rebelled at the thought that I was another man's slave - his sex toy - and yet, at the same time, I'd felt strangely liberated. It seemed to me that the "slave within" had been finally liberated and I was being true to my real nature.

I'd even felt gratitude to Anwar! As he thrust deeper into me, I realized that he'd been correct about his assumption that I was at heart a slave and that he was rendering me a great service by enslaving me. Lying on my back and looking up into his face, I understood that all he'd said was true. I am a slave and my true destiny is to serve a powerful Master.

Nevertheless, I remain afraid and listen very carefully to what Fin and the other five tell me.

I understand from my fellow slaves that after we have been shaved, showered, cleaned out and lubricated, we'll be returned to our cell to wait until a prospective buyer might decide to test-run one of us in a viewing-room.

Fin tells me what inevitably will happen; some privileged buyers will visit the pens for a pre-sale viewing of the available livestock. When this happened it is expected that all the slaves will walk to the front of their pens and press their bodies hard up against the bars thus making them accessible to the buyers' hands. Should a buyer show physical interest in me by reaching through the bars to touch my body, then I must thrust my cock and balls through the bars as an invitation to him to inspect me further. And I am told that it is even permissible for me to plead with the buyer to finger my genitals or to inspect my ass.

It is Holger who tells me that it is all about self-promotion; I need to "sell myself" to a buyer by appearing eager to please him and to have him own me. This way, I can possibly influence who finally buys me.

I find the notion of promoting myself to a buyer and virtually begging him to buy me as distasteful. Yet, I understand that the six waiters speak from personal experience. Their twelve months spent as slaves has given them a cunning that has enabled them to survive. They have learned through bitter experience and they now share that with me. I am most grateful to them.

By now, my tumescence has subsided and I am ready to relieve my overtaxed bladder. Thankfully, Andrew and Wickus need to piss and I join them, straddled legged, over the sewer drain without any sense of embarrassment. I have overcome my initial reluctance at performing my bodily functions so publicly and from now on I won't have any second thoughts.

Suddenly, the Arab overseers, who'd prepared me yesterday, entered the pens with our first meal for the day. They are accompanied by four slave assistants who stagger under the weight of a large metal pot and baskets which contain our meal of a porridge-like gruel, unleavened black bread and dried dates.

These slaves are all white but are past their prime. I estimate their ages as somewhere in the late thirties to the mid-forties. It is hard to judge as they are all uniform in their appearance with their naked, putty-white, hairless bodies and shaved, bald heads. They wear heavy, metal collars around their necks with matching ones around their cocks and balls. If I could read Arabic, I'd see the inscriptions engraved into the collars declare them to be the "Property of the House of Malik". And showing vividly red against the whiteness of their asses is the ubiquitous slave brand identical to the one I now wear.

As one, the occupants of the pens crowd to the front of their prisons; they press up hard against the bars and hold out their arms almost in supplication. Each is given a wooden bowl of food and they retreat back into the sanctuary of the pen and sit quietly as they eat.

I take my lead from the six waiters and stand against the bars with my outstretched arms silently begging for food. Suddenly, I realize how hungry I am; my last meal was breakfast at my hotel yesterday morning and I'd not eaten since then. I am ravenous and my belly is rumbling from my hunger pangs. Gratefully, I take my bowl of gruel, my ration of bread and dates and using my fingers - for I have no eating utensils - I hungrily devour them within minutes. It goes part way to satisfying my hunger but I want more and hold my bowl out through the bars and plead for an extra ration.

My action infuriates an overseer who uses the handle of his whip to knock the bowl from my hands. As it clatters noisily against the stone floor, he abuses me in Arabic. I don't know the meaning of his words but their intent is clear. I'm not to be given any extra food and my impertinence has angered him.

After, we have eaten and the bowls collected from us, we are allowed a few minutes to attend to the "calls of nature" before we are systematically removed from our cells and taken to the ablution room.

Of course, I have an interest in watching as the slaves are ordered from their cells, lined up one behind the other and chained together at the neck before they are driven away under the whips to be made ready for inspection.

Naturally, I am apprehensive and my six companions sense this. They re-assure me that no harm will come to us. But Fin does warn me there'll be some discomfort as I am given my enema. He tells me "not to fight the nozzle; to relax my muscles and to allow it to enter easily into me and all will be well."

I'm about to learn that an enema is to become routine for me; eventually, it will become part of the daily ritual of being a pleasure slave.

Working quickly and efficiently, the occupants from each pen are taken away, made ready and returned. All too soon, an overseer unlocks the door to our pen and we are ordered out into the walkway between the two lines of cells. We are made to line up one behind the other and I find myself chained between Finbar and Andrew. The walk to the ablution block is no more than thirty shuffling steps from our pen as the overseers shout and crack their whips over our heads and shoulders to move us forward into the ablution room.

I use the term ablution loosely; the room itself is utilitarian in appearance and its walls and floor are covered in dirty, once-white - but what are now grimy-grey tiles .The walls appear to be perpetually damp and covered with mildew and protruding from the ceiling are a series of rust encrusted shower heads which drip continuously. Set in the floor are a row of sinkhole latrines which stink to high heaven. The foul-smelling air in the room is throat- retching and only adds to my overall apprehension.

Working under the fussy direction of the Arab overseers, the slave assistants go about their duties with astonishing proficiency and speed. It is obvious they have performed these tasks many times before and the angry crisscrossed pattern of stripes on their backs indicates they have been well trained in their duties.

The slave assistants quickly use their razors to shave our beards; it's one of Malik's prerequisites that his slaves are clean shaven before being placed on display. Then, the razors are used to shave the stubble in our armpits, our pubes and on our limbs. Particular attention is paid to our ass-cracks and any spare hairs are quickly removed. Although in my case this is unnecessary as it is less than twenty-four hours since I was body-shaved from head to toe.

Then, still standing in our line, our finger and toe nails are examined and trimmed if necessary. And as the slaves work on our bodies, the Arabs give us sprigs of mint to chew to sweeten out breath so that we won't offend any prospective buyers who wishes to examine us. Finally, we are released from our neck chain.

It is now time for our enemas!

Like the other six slaves, I'm ordered to bend at the waist and grab hold of my ankles to hold me steady. Nervously, I turn my head to watch as slave attendant retrieves a hose attached to a rubber bag and walks behind me. I grunt as a cold nozzle is pressed hard up against my resisting anus and then I groan loudly as it is pushed unceremoniously into my rectum. I remember Fin's earlier advice and try to relax my anal muscles but I yelp and begin to wriggle as I feel my guts cramp while my belly distends as warm, soapy water jets into my innards. This earns me a sharp rebuke from an Arab overseer.

"Stand still, slave or I'll have you strapped down to a trestle. Slaves about to be inspected need to be clean both internally and externally. We need to clean out your bowels should one of Master Malik's esteemed clients wish to fuck you. It is essential that you are properly prepared for such an eventuality. There is no way that an important client would want to poke his noble cock into the ass-hole of an unclean, Franj slave. Now listen and do exactly as I say. Tightly clench the cheeks of your buttocks together and stand up. Good! Now, still keep them clenched together and go and squat over one of the latrine holes."

The overseer indicates one of a row of latrine holes set in the floor.

"Keep your ass closed and don't let any of the water dribble out of your hole until I give you permission to expel it. Now squat and position your ass over the hole. NOW YOU CAN LET GO!"

Unclenching my buttocks, I have no control as I expel the waste and water from my bowels. Then, when I've finished, the Arab commands me to bend at the waist once more so that the procedure can be repeated.

This procedure is repeated three times before the overseers are satisfied that,

"The slave's ass is running clean".

All around me, my six fellow slaves are receiving similar treatment to me. When, we are finished and judged to be "clean", we are paired with one another and because there are seven of us, I am the odd man out. Consequently, I don't know what I must do. Then, I hear an Arab give a further order to two of the slaves assistants.

"You two get him under a shower and clean him up. And as a reward you can play with him but make sure he doesn't cum."

The two slaves are delighted and began to giggle at this prospect of toying with me. With their cocks rampantly erect, they enthusiastically drag me under a shower-head. As the cold water cascades over our bodies, one of the two slaves places himself in front of me whilst the other takes up a position behind me until I am sandwiched between their hard, muscular bodies. I feel the cock of the slave behind him probing into the crack between my buttocks whilst the cock of the slave in front presses itself against my groin and begins to massage my own cock to a full erection. Next, I feel the cock-head pressing against my ass- hole and involuntarily, my body responds to this new and erotic stimulation.

As the Arab overseers watch us under the shower, their own cocks grow rock hard and tent their trousers. Obviously, they enjoy watching as the two slave attendants work on me. My body begins to quiver as two pairs of soap-slicked hands roamed freely over my chest and back and soon I am moaning softly as my sensitive nipples are pinched and my ass-cheeks squeezed. This seems to increase the two slaves' pleasure and they are now giggling uncontrollably.

It would seem that the Arabs have a policy of rewarding their slave helpers by allowing them restricted access to the bodies of the slaves they are working on. This helps to keep them in good humour and ensures their workmanship is of the highest standard.

Now both slaves are on their knees; one vigorously sucks my cock as the other pries my ass- cheeks apart and hungrily thrusts the tip of his hot, moist tongue into my exposed ass-hole. I am rendered helpless under the onslaught of their mouths and tongues; my knees buckle and I begin to moan my appreciation at the attention I am getting. I respond by alternatively thrusting my hips forward in an effort to force my cock further down the slave's open throat and then pushing backwards as I try to draw the invading tongue further into my body. Somewhere in the background, I hear an Arab overseer's laughing comment.

"The new slave responds well to the touch of the cock. It augurs well for him and he has the promise of giving much pleasure to his new Master."

However, they decide it is now time to stop and return to the task at hand.

"STOP! THAT'S ENOUGH! Now soap him up and wash him down - and make sure you do a thorough job."

Immediately, both slaves begin to lovingly wash my body; once my head has been washed, one slave slowly moves the soap down over my chest and belly whilst the other uses his soap to caress my shoulders and back. My rampantly erect cock pokes out obscenely from the flat plain of my belly and it is evidence of my enjoyment at the attention I am receiving. Once more, both slaves are on their knees as they wash my genitals and my ass. One of the slaves looks furtively to see if the overseers are watching before using the soap as a lubricant and slyly inserting his soap-slicked finger into my asshole. As the finger probes deep, it seeks out my prostate and I surrender to the pleasure of the moment and thrust backwards.

"STOP THAT! Get your finger out of his ass, finish washing him and then dry him off unless you want my whip across you asses."

The chastened slaves hasten to obey the overseer's command and soon I am washed and dried and ready for the Arabs' inspection.

As an overseer inspects me, I'm aware of new, exhilarating sensations sweeping through my body and I find that I am willingly submitting to his suggestive stimulations. I whimper softly as he weighs and hefts my balls and teases the piss-slit of my now rampantly erect cock. As he pries my buttocks apart, I eagerly widen my stance to allow him easier access and at the touch of an exploratory finger on my sphincter, I thrust my ass back in an eager invitation to him to "come and explore some more".

The Arab spends several minutes deliciously exploring my body and when he is finished it is the other Arab overseer's turn to examine me. And I find myself submitting to this second inspection as readily as I did with the first Arab.

My mind is a maelstrom of mixed emotions. One part of me still rebels at the thought that I am now a slave and another man's property. But then, my lifelong fantasies manifest themselves and the thought that I am another man's slave excites me in ways that I never thought possible. As I am fingered and erotically aroused, slavery seems sensuous and highly desirous. Each moment that passes and with each new experience, I am becoming more slave-like in my outlook. As I think on the paradox of this, I finally understand that Anwar was correct in his original assessment of me. I am, by my very nature, a true slave.

This morning is proving to be my epiphany! The self-realization that I was born to be a chattel slave coupled with my desire to be owned and used by a powerful Master excites me.

Suddenly, I better understand myself. Now there are no more ambiguities to trouble me. A tremor of excitement ripples through me as I realize that I am now a branded slave who'll soon be sold by my Master, Anwar to a new owner.

I begin to tremble uncontrollably at the thought that two days hence I will mount the auction block and seductively pose my body to attract a buyer. I know that, in the interim, I am to be exhibited to two prospective buyers and I am erotically aroused by the thought of submitting my body to their close, hands-on scrutiny. This will challenge me as never before!

I look at the six waiters and wonder if any of them share my experience. Are they happy to be slaves? Somehow I doubt it! From what they have told me, they were kidnapped into their slavery and spirited away to Malik's slave-market and sold. All have expressed their unhappiness at serving as slaves and yet, of necessity, they have accepted it as their lot. But then, they had no other choice which is the same situation I now find myself in. Prior to their enslavement, did any of them harbour a slave's nature that saw them embrace slavery much as I am? Again, it is doubtful that they do, for nothing they have said to me indicates this is so.

I guess then that my long held, fantasy slave-life makes me an aberration and that my lifelong desire to serve as a slave makes me very different to them.

All seven of us are now finished. We have been made ready for the day's inspections and it is time to return us to the slave-holding pens. But two more chores need to be performed on us before we are fastened to our neck chain and whip driven back to our cell.

The slave attendants work swiftly to massage a perfumed unguent into our bodies. Its purpose is twofold; it serves to mask any lingering body odour and to highlight our musculatures. When they'd finished, I am left to salivate at the sight of my fellow slaves as their muscles ripple and flex under the oil sheen. I can understand why Malik does this; as a past master at presentation, his livestock is displayed to perfection and will whet the appetite of any prospective buyers who visit the pens.

The sight of the six waiters' naked, oiled torsos is powerfully erotic and I find myself hoping that my own body is the equal of theirs. Somehow, I suspect it is.

Then an Arab orders us to.

"Bend and spread! Pry those ass-cheeks apart! Stretch them open! WIDER!"

I wait as the slave attendants move down the line lubricating all seven of us ready for digital exploration or worse - anal penetration. The lubricant feels cold and sticky as it is smeared onto my sphincter and worked into my rectum. Nevertheless, another man's touch, even that of a slave, on my body both arouses and excites me.

An Arab overseer moves behind us parting our ass-cheeks and testing to see that we are well- lubricated. As he finishes his inspection of each one of us, he dismissively slaps our asses and tells to stand as the second overseer fastens the chain to our collars.

When all seven of us are chained together, the overseers crack their whips over our heads - taking great care not to mark our bodies - to start us walking. Somehow, as I shuffle along in the coffle, I am reminded of farm animals being driven back to the stables. And this is exactly what is happening; we are indeed animals being taken back to our own stall in the slave-pens.

When you are a slave waiting for something to happen, time has the habit of moving slowly. There is no clock on the wall for us to mark the passing of the minutes and we aren't allowed to wear watches; indeed my own very expensive, Swiss watch was confiscated and I notice one of the Arab overseers now wears it on his wrist. Consequently, I have no idea of time other than that it's still early morning.

Boredom rules in the slave-pens! Left to our own devices, we either sit listlessly on the straw-strewn floor or we pace the perimeters of our cells liked caged beasts as we wait for something - anything - to happen.

Time passes with inexorable slowness!

Then - I estimate its mid-morning - the overseers crack their whips to gain our attention and order us to.

"Move to the front of the pens and stand facing out through the bars."

A murmur ripples through the six waiters as we quickly take up our places at the front of our pen. Now we wait for further developments. It seems to me that a slave requires a great deal of patience as he waits on his betters.

Suddenly, a door opens and Malik and two African men enter the holding area. They walk slowly down the central walkway pausing before each pen to study its occupants before moving to the next cell. Eventually, they stop directly in front of our pen and I am able to see the two Africans through the bars. Briefly, I study them before averting my eyes and lowering them to the ground. For some inexplicable reason, this seems the right thing for me to do. It is the natural order of things that a slave must never look directly into the face of a free man unless he is ordered to do so. I am learning fast.

But in those few, brief moments, I see that both Africans are expensively dressed and supremely confident. I estimate that one is aged in his late thirties to early forties while the second one is much younger - a teenager of about seventeen or eighteen.

There is a marked family resemblance between the two Africans and it occurs to me that they could be father and son. The notion that a father has brought his son with him as he inspects a slave is a powerfully erotic one. It far surpasses any previous slave fantasy that I have enjoyed in the past.

I recall from yesterday's conversation between Anwar and Malik that an African oil billionaire has asked to inspect me. Is this the man they spoke of and has he brought his son along to help in making a decision on whether or not to buy me? Part of me is horrified at the prospect of this happening and yet another side to me wants this to happen. I begin to tremble at the thought of this black teenager helping his father make a final selection.

Malik confirms that they are father and son as he introduces them to the two Arab overseers as Ahmedu Hadi and his son, Abdel Hadi. Both Africans greet the overseers and after an exchange of pleasantries the older of the two speaks to Malik.

"And tell me Malik, which of these slaves is the one you spoke of so glowingly yesterday? Have him come forward so that I can peruse him more thoroughly."

Malik points directly at me and orders me to, "Step forward, slave and press your body up against the bars so that Master Ahmedu and Master Abdel can inspect you!"

I remember back to my earlier conversations with Fin and the other slaves and recall how they'd told me to present my body to a prospective buyer for examination. I grab hold of the bars for support and press my body hard against the bars separating me from the two Africans. And then I recall that Holger had advised me to sell myself to the buyers and I push my cock and balls out through the bars as an invitation to examine them more easily.

My actions meet with the approval of Ahmedu Hadi who compliments Malik.

"The slave seems eager to please Malik, and readily presents his body for my inspection. And I believe you said he is a new slave? Is that not so?"

"Indeed he is Ahmedu! He's been a slave for less than twenty-four hours as you can see from the rawness of the brand on his ass. This time yesterday, he was still a highly successful, London lawyer holidaying in Maluchistan."

"And today he is just a naked slave! How cruelly the fates have conspired to irrevocably change his life for him. I take it that he had no inkling of the fate that was to befall him when he journeyed to Maluchistan?"

"He had none whatsoever, Ahmedu! The foolish Franj was most cunningly duped by my old friend Anwar who feigned friendship and affection for him. These foolish infidels; they are so self-obsessed and they never realize that we only ever see them as white slaves."

"It is indeed fortunate that their arrogance blinds them to reality. And everything you said about him is true. He is most pleasing to the eye. He has the blond hair and blue eyes that I favour in my slaves and his body is honed to perfection; I suspect it was acquired within a London gymnasium from the look of him. But now with your permission, I will examine him and if he interests me, I would ask that he be taken to a room for a private viewing and appraisal."

"Indeed, Ahmedu! The slave is entirely at your disposal. Take your time and evaluate him at your leisure. Is Abdel to assist you in your appraisal of the slave?"

"Yes, Malik. Abdel is now of an age where it's only right that he assists me in choosing a slave for our household. In fact, I have told Abdel that should he see a slave he likes then I will bid on that slave for him."

"What a generous, doting father, you are, Ahmedu! And tell me Abdel - have you seen a slave that takes your fancy? There are many to choose from among this lot. Do you have a preference for a particular type of slave?"

"Yes, Sir!" Abdel's reply to Malik's question is most polite. Obviously he has great respect for his elders. And his polished accent is that of a British Public School. "I share my Dad's liking for blond, blue eyed slaves."

"Ah, like father like son" Malik laughs. "Then you should have a wide scope among your father's slaves most of whom would meet those criteria if my memory serves me correctly."

"Indeed he does, Malik! I'm afraid that Abdel has a tendency to put my slaves to frequent, hard usage."

"Good for him, Ahmedu! After all, isn't that why we keep our slaves? They are there to serve us and no doubt your slaves serve nobly to satisfy son's lusty needs"

"That's true, Malik and believe me Abdel makes sure my slaves offer up their mouths and asses and serve his needs most admirably. But it's not the same as him having his very own slave and that's why he is with me today. If he sees a slave he likes then we will bid for him at auction. Now tell me, Abdel, have you seen a slave you like?"

"Yes Dad, I quite like that one second from the end."

"Which end of the line is that Abdel?" Malik asks.

"Sir, I like the look of that tow-headed slave second from the left."

Furtively, I glance sideways to see which of my companions, the teenager has chosen. I see that it's Finbar. My heart skips a beat. Perhaps Fin and I will be bought by the same buyer. I hope so for to commence my slavery with Fin will lessen my trauma.

"You have chosen well, young man! He's a fine slave and came originally from Ireland. I sold him for the first time just twelve months ago and his Master is absolutely delighted with him."

"If his Master is so delighted with the slave then why is he being sold?" Abdel asks suspiciously.

"His Master buys six slaves each year to work in his London restaurant. However, he changes his waiters every six months replacing them with new stock. He'll be bidding for another six slaves as replacements for these six at Saturday's auction. But let me bring the slave to the bars and you can examine him more closely. Does he still interest you, Abdel?"

"Yes, he does very much so, Sir!"

"Step up to the bars, slave!"

Fin hurries forward to stand beside me and, eager to please, he presses his body against the front of the pen. And like me, he positions his cock and balls between the bars and we both wait for the father and son to inspect us.

CONTINUE THE STORY:
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2 Comments

  1. 31118azti - July 10, 2020, 9:26 am

    My oh my what a scene….excellent….thanks!

  2. scotts60143 - July 14, 2020, 7:27 am

    A long chapter with lots going on, but it was a nice touch that Matt was able to make a “friend” to sort of comfort him into the world of being a slave. Very interesting to hear their stories, and enjoyed the father son team looking for slaves. Will be very interested to see the details of the upcoming sale and where Matt will end up. Will it be with the father and son along with his friend Fin, or will he in the end go somewhere else? Can’t wait!!

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