As Ben comes around, he finds himself sitting, naked, in a very solid bondage chair. His chest and stomach are tightly strapped to the vertical back of the chair. His thighs are strapped to the seat, and his ankles are strapped to the substantial front legs. Premium leather wrist restraints snuggly secure his arms to the upright stanchions so his hands are held uselessly to the side and just below the level of his butt. A snug collar ensures that his head doesn’t sag and his eyes face forward. The whole construction is of 4-inch square section welded steel that is powder coated black, and reeks of rock-solid quality.
Ben can’t move and is going nowhere until I release him.
My captive is a straight male office worker who keeps himself fit by going to the gym three times per week before work. He’s 26 years old, short spiked black hair, small landing strip goatee, dusting of chest hair, dusting of lower abdomen hair leading to a trimmed bush and shaved balls. His cock is about 7 inches, cut, straight with a pretty pink bell end that cries out to be tortured.
Overall, Ben is a very saleable commodity that I’m looking forward to training. He definitely gets my spunk rising, and I can easily see myself fucking his arse and mouth, and I’m looking forward to both in the coming weeks.
Continue reading Chronicles of a Slave Trader – Chapter 16
Exercising livestock is of paramount importance. There’s no point in procuring prime body-stock if it’s allowed to deteriorate during training. It’s essential to promote increased stamina, improved strength, greater wellbeing, better health and, hopefully, enhanced sex-appeal in every slave. Consequently, the slaves are exercised hard, every day.
The treadmill pods provide slaves with adequate cardio exercise, as each occupant spends at least six hours a day walking, jogging and running, trying to catch some sleep between pre-programmed exercise sessions.
Slaves also spend at least four, 3-hour sessions in the gym, every week. Our gym is well appointed with the latest, state-of-the-art equipment that would not be out-of-place in the best high street gymnasium. Glass walled on two sides, the gym provides me with good visibility of the slave’s progress.
Continue reading Chronicles of a Slave Trader – Chapter 15
The slave is kneeling at what we call “a kneeling-rest”. Its hands are behind its back, each grasping its opposite elbow, with the forearms aligned and parallel to the floor. The head is bowed, eyes open, focused on an imaginary point on the floor several feet ahead. Its knees are spread wide, its ankles less so, toes bent and planted firmly on the floor behind its buttocks. It rests half way between an “upright kneel” and “sitting on its heels”. The strong thigh muscles draw the eyes in, and frame a glorious set of genitals, hanging invitingly as if being offered to their owner – me.
Its cut cock is impressive at about 7 inches soft, 10.5 inches when hard, with a slight downwards turn and a striking mushroom crown. The rod has excellent girth and arcs over two hairless golf-ball size globes, gorgeous to behold. The penis is rock-hard and dripping pre-cum, as it always is when in the presence of its Master. It’s a Pavlovian response. The mere thought of its Master will result in an instant erection. Training is a wonderful thing.
I am on the cusp of a dilemma. An hour ago, I received a call from the client who ordered this wonderful piece of beef. The customer has had a change of mind and asked if we could negotiate a deal that will allow him to take delivery of only two of the three slaves he ordered. He’s a good patron, having purchased a lot of product in the past, so I don’t want to upset him with a refusal.
Continue reading Chronicles of a Slave Trader – Chapter 14
As it turns out, by the time I’d slurped my coffee, sent a few emails, made a few phone calls, collapsed in front of the television to relax, and relaxed a bit too much and fell asleep, I left fuck-face being tortured by the unsympathetic computer somewhat longer than I’d planned.
I awake with a start. Checking my watch, I realise that fuck-face has been tormented by the tireless machine for a full nine and a half hours. “Oops!” I say out loud. “Guess I should have set an alarm. The scally-lad will be well-done by now; charred around the edges I expect.” I smile.
Rubbing the sleep from the corner of my eyes, I muscle myself out of the too-soft sofa, and stroll back to the rack-room.
Not quite sure what to expect, I tentatively open the door, enough to squeeze my head into the room to assess the damage. First impression is of an overwhelming smell of sex, testosterone and musty sweat. I open the door enough to step through and hesitantly step towards the prisoner’s prone body.
Continue reading Chronicles of a Slave Trader – Chapter 13
It takes a few moments for fuck-face to feel the lightly pulsing current through its dick. At first the implications don’t register to the scallies dullard brain, but as the sensations get stronger, and the urge to cum once again increases, the slave realises that he’s not in an ideal situation.
The bound captive raises his head slightly, eyes widening. Turning towards me, and with a slightly anxious voice, says “No need, mun! Sack it la!” Translation: An exclamation of disapproval followed by “Stop it! Don’t do it!” The dialect is quite melodious and is roughly based on English.
I respond calmly: “You think I went to all this trouble to just let you go? No way fucker, you’re gonna learn some respect.”
I pull the chair closer so I have a good view. “Now, when you’re ready to behave, just let me know and I’ll turn the machine off”, I lie.
Fuck-face clenches its lips, closes its eyes and rests its head back on the rack. I always find this so fucking horny. There’s nothing sexier than a bound, stretched torso laid out ready for torture, unable to protect itself from the monstrous ministrations planned by a sadistic Master. And there’re few Masters more sadistic than me. <grin>
Continue reading Chronicles of a Slave Trader – Chapter 12
Scally-lads are a British phenomenon that have flourished across our society for close on twenty years. They are tribal animals that run in packs, usually congregating in groups of three or more on street corners, with little to do except look for trouble.
They are essentially feral mongrels that live by their wits, self-obsessed, self-serving, enjoying life, without a care in the world.
Their uniform usually consists of ill-fitting, worn and unwashed tracksuits, with hoody tops and trainers or tennis shoes, often branded and new.
Usually uneducated, they have poor language skills, are often loud, abusive and lack social skills.
They typically have very high libidos, fucking whatever low-life females they can convince to ‘put-out’ for them. They make excellent sex slaves but I encourage owners to adopt a very specific attitude towards their scally slaves….
Continue reading Chronicles of a Slave Trader – Chapter 11
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.
Continue reading Chronicles of a Slave Trader – Chapter 10
Piss-slit is lying on its back on a padded bench. Its wrists are padlocked together under the bench. The back of its collar is clipped to the end of the bench so its head hangs loose, unsupported. Its legs are bound with a 12 inch connecting chain between its ankles, under the bench. Its balls are roped to a ceiling hook forcing the slave to lift its buttocks off the bench and support itself on the balls of its feet.
The 17” monitor is now positioned 24 inches above the slave’s stomach such that it must raise its head and look down over its pecs to read the screen.
I’ve been dreading this. SPEECH LAW NUMBER 3 is more complex than the first two, and piss-slit is a slow learner. I need to be careful not to damage the slave in the process of improving it. I take a deep breath and begin. I need to get this done quickly, as I had a call from The Snatcher this morning. He’s on his way with three new trainees. Things are about to get busy again.
Continue reading Chronicles of a Slave Trader – Chapter 09