Chronicles of a Slave Trader – Chapter 01

By PredicamentBondage

Stevie is having trouble drinking. He is in one of the pods and the water spigot is of a very extraordinary design…

The spigot is exactly 28 inches above the floor. It’s a 1.5 inch diameter pipe that protrudes from the wall by 2 inches. In order to drink, Stevie must drop onto all fours and take the pipe fully into his mouth.

There are two buttons down at floor level about one foot apart which he has to push, one with each hand.

In the wall, just above the pipe, is another button that must be depressed using his nose. When this is achieved, roughly 1 inch of pipe is implanted in his mouth.

In this position Stevie is staring straight at a small set of instructions (mounted on the wall above the nose button) that explain what he has to do in minute detail. He has successfully accomplished all but one last step so, as yet, he is still thirsty.

Stevie is a rather splendid specimen. He’s a 20 years old, straight, 5ft 10in, 150lbs, naturally fit, well defined, quite lithe college gymnast. His cock is slightly hooded and about 4 inches when flaccid. His balls hang low, evenly and are about the size of walnuts. He’s completely naked with a smooth, slightly ruddy complexion and no blemishes, spots or tattoos. In such a position he reminds me of a prize German Short-haired Pointer posing in the ring at a dog show: back straight, concave stomach, feet tensed with toes pointing forward and heels high, chin raised, nose forward and arse in the air.

He’s not drank since waking up to his new environment about 6 hours ago and he’s very thirsty now.

The devilish design of the water dispenser means he must also insert his tongue into the pipe. If inserted far enough, it will find a small paddle which, when pushed, will allow a trifling trickle of water to drop onto the tongue above and in front of the paddle, and allow water to run in a tiny rivulet along the tongue to the back of the throat. It’s almost impossible to swallow in this position so the water has to just seep down the gullet.

After an eternity of stretching, his tongue finally makes contact with the paddle; a glimmer of hope that his thirst will be quenched. A quarter of an inch thrust lies between famine and feast. He continues to strain. Tears are squeezed from the corner of his eyes. And then, finally, he succeeds! His tongue stretches forward and his reward trickles onto his dry and sore taste buds. He stays in position for a full ten minutes until his thirst is satisfied. As he drinks, veins stand proud on his neck as the strain of manipulating the distant paddle causes his whole face to ache.

Unbeknownst to Stevie, he is already being trained for future use as a sex slave. The device exercises the tongue, increasing its strength and dexterity so the slave can provide maximum pleasure to its owner(s). The diameter of the pipe forces his jaws wide. Good training for the long hours he’ll spend with cock in his mouth. The water is laced with Viagra liquid to keep the slave perpetually horny and its cock rigid.

After drinking, the slave slowly gets to its feet. It doesn’t think of itself as a slave yet, but it won’t be long before it does.

The pod in which it is locked has a floor area of exactly 6ft 6in by 2ft 6in. which means that he can lie flat on his back, without any wriggle room. He awoke in exactly this position about 6 hours ago and started exploring his strange new prison.

The floor, he realised, is a soft, textured, springy rubber material. Quite comfortable really, except for the lack of a pillow.

The walls, at least 12ft high, look like solid white glass through which light shines brightly, giving no clue as to what’s outside. No doors, openings or clear sections are apparent. The walls are lined on all sides (except around the drinking spigot) with thin vertical chrome rods spaced about 1 inch apart. Within 30 seconds of waking up, the pods new occupant learned not to touch the walls. Doing so results in a severe electric jolt from the rods and hurts like a son-of-a-bitch.

The temperature is set at a constant 32 degrees Centigrade (90 Fahrenheit) and the relative humidity, a sticky 90. This produces a permanent, attractive sweaty sheen on the slaves’ skin.

He calls out, “HELP!…. HELLO?…. What the fuck is going on?…. HELLO?”.

It inspects its body….. No apparent damage. No bruising, no scratches, no pain, no memory of how it got here. The last thing it remembers, is sitting at the college bar chatting up the cute barmaid. It was going well and he fancied his chances of securing a date when she got off work. Did someone spike his drink? Was it the barmaid? Did she not like him as much as he thought?

One fucked up weird thing (as if this whole situation wasn’t fucked up already), a large heavy padlock secured around the base of its genitals, the back of its balls resting against the black body of the lock, another clue he was in serious shit.

Suddenly, there’s a melodic “dinnnnng” from somewhere in the pod and, 10 seconds later, the floor abruptly starts moving. The whole base of the pod is one big treadmill and, if the slave is to avoid getting painfully shocked by the walls, it has no choice but to match the speed of the floor.

The initial exercise consisted of a brisk 30 minute walk but, over the last 6 hours, the slave has come to realise that the floor is programmed to run at random speeds from a slow walk, up to a virtual sprint. It is forced to exercise for 30 minutes and allowed to rest for 30 minutes. Its body is exhausted yet it knows it has to move with the treadmill or risk severe pain and possible injury.

Now, six hours later, it’s blond, medium length wavy hair is slicked down on its forehead. There are rivulets of sweat running from its armpits, the wisps of pit-hair plastered wet against the hidden hollow under each arm. The dusting of leg hair sticks sensually to the now twitching musculature of its legs. The faint treasure trail of blond curls running down from its navel is bejewelled with shiny pearls of saltiness. And its pubic hair is starting to stick against the pale skin of its groin.

There’s a slurry of nose snot running from the left nostril and a welling of tears in its eyes. Altogether, one of the most jean-creaming sights a Master could wish to see. This new slave is going to earn me a fortune.

The pod “dinnnnngs” again, and the slave has no choice but to once more start running. I watch the monitor, mesmerised by the slaves’ beauty. My cock is hard in the palm of my hand, and I once again feel extremely fortunate to own a business that gives me so much pleasure. Training slaves is my life and my passion and I am extremely good at my profession.

Fifteen minutes into its latest run, the slave starts to struggle. Perspiration stings its eyes. Its legs feel near to collapse. There’s pain in its balls as they impact against the padlock. It is disconcerted at feeling its cock at half-mast, bobbing up and down in time with the run, and getting harder every minute.

The slave is a glorious mess and it would be horrified to know that another 18 long hours stretch ahead before it will leave the pod to start the next phase of training.

The slave realises it has to dig deep and picks up the pace, and I spontaneously cum over my desk.

 

Metal would like to thank PredicamentBondage for this story!

 

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