Chronicles of a Slave Trader – Chapter 10

By PredicamentBondage

Shit-head is led from its pod to the area of the factory I call “Shaving Corner”. It’s time to get this slave completely stripped.

Shaving a slave from top to bottom has several benefits, the most important being psychological. When slaves see themselves in a mirror with no body hair, no pubes, no pit-hair they see their masculinity stripped away in line with their body-hair. They see non-masculine, non-macho, boyish, emasculated, weak objects reflected back at them. Most don’t even recognise themselves. The psychological effects are immeasurable in helping to make the slave compliant and cementing its status as an owned object.

But… And it’s a big BUT… shaving is very time consuming. Shearing a slave properly can take several hours and needs to be done at least once every four weeks or so. If you consider that we might have up to ten slaves in residence, it adds up to almost 4 working days every month; not practical.

After a great deal of research, I developed a system to make the process quick and easy, saving an enormous amount of time, effort and money. The name of the game in my business is “efficient automation”. Managing slaves is a full time business and anything I can do to make my life easier, I will.

Shaving Corner houses an old vehicle inspection pit, once used by mechanics to work underneath cars. At almost six feet deep, six feet long with steps at one end for easy access, it’s perfect for my needs. I had it water-proofed and plumbed with installed pumps so it can be easily filled and emptied.

Placed close to the inspection pit is a large shower tray with surrounding splash-backs. Shit-head is now standing in this spray-booth, completely naked except for a tight rubber hood that completely encases its head except for two small holes under the nose. The hood holds high and tight around the slave’s neck, just under the chin, providing a tight seal high around the neck.

The system I’ve developed gives spectacular results. The hood is in place to protect the slaves face and head. I start by picking up a standard industrial spray-paint gun. Its reservoir is full of a clear sticky liquid, the consistency of cooking oil. I squeeze the trigger, the compressor kicks in, and the oil starts spraying gently from the paint-nozzle. Swinging the gun in lazy arcs, I apply the chemical to shit-head’s body, taking care to cover every inch, and getting into every nook and cranny. I move the slave around to ensure complete coverage and, when satisfied I return the gun to its holster.

The chemical feels very cold after application, ice cold in fact. Shit-head immediately gets goose-bumps all over its body and starts shivering like a dog left out in the winter snow.

I comfort the slave and encourage it to step down into the pit, which is full of a mustard-yellow coloured gooey substance. The consistency is much like pouring custard and it’s extremely viscous. As shit-head reaches the bottom of the pit, the cloying fluid laps just over the seam of the hood around its neck. If the hood were not in place, the stuff could easily lap into its mouth.

Shit-head moans as the mustard gloop chemically reacts with the clear coating applied before immersion. As the two composites react, the heat increases until it feels like getting into a too-hot bath. I tell shit-head not to panic as the heat will subside and he stands still as I instruct. It’s beginning to trust its Master, exactly as it should do.

Never-the-less, within three or four minutes, shit-head is crying out in agony, as the chemicals attack its skin. The slave begs to come out of the pit and have the goo washed from its body. I comfort it as best I can from a distance and firmly tell it to “stay-put or get severely punished”.

After ten minutes the heat subsides and the slave calms down. I guide shit-head out of the pit and back towards its pod. The two chemicals have completely reacted and the slave is now coated with what appears to be a dirty yellow rubber wetsuit. To the touch, it’s non-sticky and quite firm. Shit-head walks awkwardly as it’s led back to, and deposited inside, its treadmill pod. Just before locking the door, I remove the thin, black rubber mask so the slave can once again see. I set the slave on a 20 minute jog, long enough to generate a good sweat from tip to toe.

After the slave exerts itself, and I’ve had a refreshing coffee, I pull it from the pod, nick the yellow neckline with a knife and peel the slave’s suit from its sweaty body. The perspiration built up from the exercise acts as a lubricant and the rubber easily separates from the skin ripping jaggedly as I tear it away.

As the slave’s body is exposed, every part is revealed as being completely hairless. All hair has dissolved and the caustic biochemical compound has irreversibly destroyed each and every hair follicle. Well…. Almost. The treatment will have successfully destroyed 95% of the slave’s follicles, arresting their ability to ever again produce any fur.

Shit-head will need to undergo the same treatment in four weeks’ time to ensure the remaining 5% of growth is eliminated. And a final, third treatment will ensure that the slave is completely bare and silky smooth for the rest of its life.

…. Much easier that shaving every month.

I appreciate that the slaves head still has hair but this is good as its appearance can be tailored to suit the needs of its new owner(s).

All merchandise except for red-head stock undergoes this denuding process, unless otherwise requested by my clients. Red-heads I consider special as their desirability is predicated on the colour of their hair. Without it, they would not be so special.

Shit-head stands staring at himself in a full length mirror – it’s identity as an owned object closer than ever. The shock on its face, priceless.

Later the same night, The Snatcher wheels three cages into the loading bay at 3 a.m. under the watchful eye of a mist enshrouded crescent moon, and my security cameras. There’s a chill in the air, definitely not a night to be wandering on the moors. He never delivers during daylight hours, the roads are far too busy then. I insist that he travels under the cover of darkness to avoid prying eyes.

The three cages are all identical, constructed of black powder coated 1 inch box-section solid steel bars. They are 36 inches long x 24 inches wide x 24 inches high, with side opening padlocked doors. They sit on large rubberised castors to allow for easy, silent locomotion.

Inside each cramped cage is an equally cramped piece of new-to-the-market livestock.

The Snatcher lifts a tattered clip-board from a hook on the wall. He studies it carefully to ascertain which treadmill-pod has been allocated to each of the three captives.

The new livestock are all identically prepared. Each is naked except for a thick leather collar, locked on with a padlock. The same lock attached to a heavy 12 inch chain that connects to a matching padlock securing the cage door. The slaves are handcuffed with hands behind their backs. Each is silenced with a penis-gag that stops them talking to each other whilst being transported. A heavy denim bag, laced to the collar, blinds them so they can never identify their enslaver. The only concession to comfort is a padded cover for the bare metal base of the cage.

The Snatcher moves the first cage from the loading bay to pod number 3. He checks the details on the paper clipped to the outside of the pod. It matches the contents of the cage, and the instructions on the clip-board. A quick jab in the butt cheek makes the livestock groggy so he can drag it from the cage, remove all its bonds, fit it with a heavy genital padlock and lay it down on the floor of the pod, finally locking the pod door securely. Within seconds, the slave is sleeping soundly.

He repeats the process for the other two cages, one to pod 4 and one to pod 5. He then visits the kitchen for a cold can of cola before taking all three, now empty, cages back to the loading bay and into his van.

The Snatcher opens a small mailbox affixed to the unpainted block-construction wall of the loading-bay. He reaches inside to retrieve a plain manila envelope and, after pocketing his earnings, he returns to his vehicle, closing the factory roller door as he leaves. The Snatcher and I have never met face to face. My identity is unknown to him.

I’ve been looking forward to this delivery. All three items have been sourced specifically for a single client. It is rare that the same client takes more than one slave at a time, but I understand that this client is celebrating his 50th birthday next year and wants to treat himself.

Specimen one is an excellent example of a 20-something red-headed bull, his name unknown.

Number two is Gavin, an attractive but unremarkable 30-something married father of two children. He is the epitome of a normal straight everyday family man.

The final captive is a 19 year old tough-guy scally-lad, picked up off the streets of Newport just hours ago. He was taking a piss in a back alley when he was abducted and goes by the name of Ryan.

Their slumber will last about 4 hours so my alarm is set so I can be in the office as they awake.

Sleepy eyed, I watch as each one regains consciousness. One by one, I initiate the treadmill programmes, imposing upon each recruit a forced exercise routine that will sap all resistance over the next 24 hours. Their journey of degradation has started as they tread a path to a destination from which there is no return.

As more slaves need caring for, automated techniques of handling them (such as chemical shaving) become more and more important. With five now here for training, I sit down to create a “project plan” to ensure each piece of slave meat gets the attention it needs.


To be continued …

Metal would like to thank PredicamentBondage for this story!

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3 thoughts on “Chronicles of a Slave Trader – Chapter 10”

  1. Really enjoy this series. Very imaginative and exceptionally well written. Thanks! Please keep the instalments coming.

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