Chapter 1 – The Workhorse
Two men walked alongside each other down a corridor.
“A new arrival today?” The blond man asked matter-of-factly, without even the slightest attention paid to the fact that he was totally exposed, had a leash around his neck, and a cage over his dick.
“Yes – a labour slave called Finn. He’s being put here while his owner’s out of town,” the other man, black-haired and clothed in a flower shirt, replied. “Get his trust and make him comfortable – he’s young.”
“Dammit! You can’t leave a new slave alone for the first few days like this!” The sheer emphaticness of the exclamation stopped the men in their tracks.
“You know this best, Magnus, and that’s why this daycare exists – I’m expecting you to become his teddy bear.”
The pair was silent as they entered a staff-only area (clearly marked as such), where Magnus opened a locker with his name, and his clothed companion watched from the sidelines, sitting on a couch.
“How should I play this?” Magnus asked as he contemplated the myriad bondage implements in front of him.
“My advice: treat him like he’s volatile. Literally take him to dinner if he doesn’t want to eat.”
Magnus fastened the leash and ball gag he had prepared onto himself, and took a deep breath to calm down before what could be a storm. He chewed at his squishy gag, which sat comfortably in his mouth, and did a good job of accentuating his plump cheeks and of putting an hourglass figure in his ample beard.
What was intended to be “fuck” ended up being a wordless grunt from Magnus, which meant the gag was working.
Volatile slaves were the worst. To even fall into this category meant a slave probably had some rather aggressive outbreak in the not-so-distant past, and while Finn was not formally classified as such, he might as well be with what must have felt like abandonment at birth.
Still, a job was a job.
“Ready, pet slave? Tear the leash right off if you need help.”
Magnus gently tugged at his leash, which was locked to his collar, but had a capsule-shaped linkage in the chain that housed a transmitter – it would signal a guard should he break the leash at that designed failure point.
Nodding in the affirmative, Magnus knelt as he signaled to let him into Finn’s holding cell.
As the door swung open, a sun-lit playroom with colourful toys – rubber balls, cat teasers, and plush toys among others – strewn about was revealed to the slave on a leash, who crawled onto its gentle green carpet that reminded of rolling hills, and sat on all fours with his back to Finn, who had barricaded himself in the corner rather ineffectively with cushions.
“Okay, Magnus,” the guard said as if cooing at a small animal, throwing Magnus’ leash aside, “you know the rules – try and touch your cock again and you get flogged, plus more chastity.”
Magnus cringed as the guard kept reading out more and more hypothetical punishments that his “master” had for him: nipple clamps for touching nipples, getting fucked for fingering himself, fist mitts if he touched his torso for pleasure, or a full day of being locked in a cage for trying to undo any of his bondage save his gag.
All of the above was presumably to Finn’s horror.
“Your master bought you so that you could suffer for his enjoyment, now do your best to satisfy him. We can see you through the cameras so don’t think you can hide from us.”
As soon as the “guard” left, Finn – a hairless slave (barring eyebrows) with seemingly well-used and rugged muscles – burst from his cushion fortress and began to undo Magnus’ bondage, who played along and flopped onto his back, forming his hands into fists and emulating the motions of a dog being tickled. After all, no one said anything about someone else tampering with Magnus’ bondage.
Magnus sighed a breath of relief when Finn saw the lock on his neck and moved on to take off his gag, and disguised it as a sigh of relief that he was now free to talk.
“Are you okay?” Finn asked, slowly but surely manoeuvring the giant ball of fur in front of him into his arms.
Conjuring all his childish cuteness, Magnus ignored him and looked curiously at Finn’s cock – totally flaccid and without restriction, a stark contrast to his own, which was trapped in a tiny titanium tube, and doing its very best to hurt itself by filling that tube as much as physically possible.
A slightly awkward silence emerged between the slaves, which was quickly broken by Finn propping up Magnus on a pile of cushions and burying his head between the bales of fur that were his pecs, giggling all the way.
“You’re so fluffy…”
Finn did not surprise Magnus in the slightest.
Subtly, Magnus seized the opportunity to reverse the dynamic in the room, placing himself in a caretaker role.
“Would you tell me some stories?”
“He didn’t say much to me – he took me out of my crate and just told me to pack his apples and clean his house.”
Like a father would, Magnus stroked Finn’s head; from the top, slowly working down the backside to the neck.
“Everyone who gets a slave chooses carefully.
“You’re here because you’re perfect for your owner, and he knows you’ll be good at whatever he tells you to do.
“Everyone has doubts, even our owners do. But I trust him – I trust that he loves me and takes care of me.”
Finn, now with visibly more hope in his eyes, looked up at Magnus and inquired about his life instead.
“Well…Finn, do you get to cum?”
“I jerk off before bed.”
“I haven’t seen my cock outside this cage for three months.”
“Does it hurt…?”
“It does. But like I said, I trust my master, and I like it.”
Finn did not believe that last part, and so wrapped his arms around Magnus as one would a supersized teddy bear to comfort him. A little to Magnus’ annoyance perhaps, with how right that prediction about cuddling was.
Still, could be worse.
Chapter 2 – Etiquette of Dining
“Now what’re you doing now?” Frank asked.
Magnus was gagged again with his chewy ball gag and was spread eagle on a coffee table in the staff lounge.
The custom-made gag fit Magnus’ mouth far too well to allow any speech – it molded itself to fill in the remaining empty space (of which there was very little to begin with) in his mouth as he chewed on it – and the best response he could give was grunting.
The guard who escorted Magnus into Finn’s cell went up to Frank and revealed him as the one who had tied Magnus up.
“Did he say he wants to cum again?”
“We all know he wants to cum. No, he’s talking about going to dinner with you because ‘Finn’s going to dinner voluntarily’.”
Frank grabbed a feather tickler from Magnus’ locker, and walked up to his very naked and very helpless suitor.
The feathers were not a weapon that could meaningfully break through the armour that was Magnus’ chest and belly hair, and hence Frank went straight for the armpits, waists, inner thighs, and anywhere else where no golden fleece could shield effectively his rather more pinkish skin.
Magnus squirmed and laughed through the resultant lecture.
“Slaves don’t go to dinner with someone – they’re taken to dinner as luggage or as pets unless someone tells them directly that they can eat on the same table. Even then, there are guidelines that tell owners to restrain their slaves by securing their legs in place.”
Frank put down the tickler (to the relief of an out-of-breath Magnus) and began releasing Magnus from bondage.
“So I’ll take you to dinner, just like I promised.”
“Thank you, sir,” Magnus replied as respectfully as he could through his giggling.
Magnus walked, naked and leashed, into an alleyway. There, a lone sign read “Elements” – presumably where they were going to have dinner.
“I hope you remember your table manners.”
Magnus did too.
“Something wrong?” Frank stopped and asked after hearing a weak “yes, sir” from Magnus.
And Frank obliged. Magnus was his proud slave who always held his head high and puffed out his chest. He did not pull his arms inwards or hunch his back.
“Something is wrong. Tell me.”
Ten slaves, naked and gagged, were sat on one side of a long table, while three trainers had their now-vacant seats opposite them as they patrolled the slaves in-training.
Given that there was no food or drink on the table at this stage, it was evident that someone had failed to hold their posture – back straight, arms behind the back, head and eyes looking down – and had been shocked for it.
The unease in the room thickened the air into a repulsive gelatin as the slaves remembered the shock collars around their necks and the shackles around their ankles.
“We know how hard your dicks are. We know we put dildos in your ass. Sit still and be quiet.”
And the ten slaves did, if only barely as their frantic breathing staved off whimpers.
“Every restaurant has its own rules that you, as a slave, must follow. Today, you’ve been taken to a restaurant that considers slaves undesirables, but will nonetheless serve rich patrons who insist on coming anyway.
“The restaurant’s policy: all slaves must be secured to their chairs – where applicable – with a quick-release system.”
The quick-release system in question was a pair of nipple clamps that, when applied, tethered the slaves’ pecs to the ends of the armrests.
“Ugh – aaargh!”
“Number 3, quiet.”
Everyone knew 3 had sensitive nipples.
“Number 10, no drooling onto the furniture. Number 9, no thrusting.”
Icy chills were sent down the slaves’ spines. They did very well not to look up at their dishes, and instead focused on catching their strings of drool on their chastity cages and not in their beards, which would make chaotic trajectories that often earned them more shocks.
Their salmon steaks smelled amazing, and would likely be some of the best food they will ever eat.
After a second round of dishes clinking, which indicated that the slave trainers have been served and were picking up their utensils, the slaves bent forward to take their gags out.
“Number 9, explain to your cohort why they won’t be allowed to blow their loads this week, and why they will be eating the usual instead of this beautiful salmon.”
It was summer – the night did nothing to dispel the humid heat, yet Magnus hugged his owner ever more tightly.
“Don’t worry,” Frank whispered as he ruffled his golden boy’s hair.
Elements was formal enough to have a cloakroom-cum-reception area staffed by a young spritely man, away from whom Magnus looked.
“Who’s your second – ah.
“Please wait a moment,” the receptionist said, retreating into the cloakroom to collect a dressing gown – silken and black, as classy as it gets.
“We have air conditioning inside. With how big he is he’s probably had all the gene mods in the world, but we definitely wouldn’t want to risk him getting sick.”
“Zucchini with chicken for the gentleman, foie gras for the guided gentleman. Our bread tonight is a rustic farmer’s bread, served with our very own blend of olive oil.
“Please enjoy what we hope will be the start of a fine evening.”
Bow with gratitude.
Count three seconds.
Straighten the back but keep looking down.
Hands corrected back into the best square shape.
A tinkle from a fork.
Nonsense – the zucchini was meant to be finger food. Owner hasn’t eaten yet.
Keep looking down.
Ignore the silence – don’t do anything –
Fearful and wincing slightly, Magnus looked up to discover many pairs of concerned eyes looking at him, not least among them those of a waiter, ready with a phone should the worst happen, and those of Frank.
“It’s okay – you’re doing very well.”
Silence between master and slave.
“I know what you’re thinking – you’re thinking just how much more expensive your dishes are. I got you foie gras because you deserve it, and because you won’t be able to find it anywhere reasonable in a few years.”
Slowly, Magnus peeled his arms apart from behind him.
“See? Not everyone hates you.”
“Could we eat?”
The bread was nice, but nothing to write home about.
As if waiting for permission, Magnus looked at Frank, who chuckled.
“Try it,” he seemed to say wordlessly.
The chunk of goose liver was small to begin with, and the fragment Magnus cut out barely held together on his fork.
An explosion of flavour in his mouth; like magic, it seemed to oscillate between a complex savoury and a gentle sweetness, and even after he had a sip of water (against Frank’s advice), the simple fact was that the foie gras was truly potent. As he breathed, he discovered the memories of this glorious taste – seconds old, but no less impactful than any other – as its aftertaste, lingering in his mouth.
Chapter 3 – The Courtesan
Despite being the most imposing slave in the shared playspace, Magnus often found himself generating a sort of magnetism.
Everyone liked him to some extent, whether it was the bubbly “little ones” who barked and rolled around and tried to run on all fours, or the ones who were “on vacation” from their skintight rubber or latex or neoprene suits, or the ones bred to lug around massive crates and have little desire for sex.
At their coldest, they would simply talk with Magnus, but still amicably. At their warmest…
“Oh please little sir, you’re getting me hard and it’s painful.”
As Magnus predicted, the “little sir” – a puppy slave whose owner elected to keep in the full garb complete with hood, fist mitts, and puppy tail – went beserk at Magnus’ goading and two other slaves’ cheers and laughter.
The puppy decided that Magnus needed belly rubs, then chest rubs, then nipple rubs, then kisses on the face. He even gave Magnus a blowjob as he sucked and licked his chastity cage, which secretly frustrated Magnus, since he had to clean it up pronto.
Finally, the puppy decided that he himself needed a hug – as predicted, he would tire himself and soon would mellow out, his head resting on Magnus’ chest.
“You want attention, don’t you?”
“You won’t have to worry pup – your master gives you so much attention that he takes you to the best place in town to play and feels happy for you.”
With the puppy easily tamed, as if queuing up for their turn, the audience of two for the puppy show just now moved in and placed themselves in the arms of the indisputable golden king of the playspace.
On Magnus’ right was an older slave – with greying hair and beard and was only slightly less hairy than Magnus himself – who watched with Magnus in great amusement the puppy and a budding muscle slave squabble for the spot closest to Magnus’ left pec.
“Hey, puppy, try this side out.”
Almost immediately, the puppy pounced on the opportunity that was Magnus’ right arm’s embrace, now left deliberately unguarded.
After (finally) calming down the slaves in his arms – the incessant shuffling and giggling finally made way for the gentle rise and fall of peaceful breathing – Magnus addressed the grey-haired slave who was kneading his shoulders.
“That’s a shit name,” Magnus laughed, before immediately recoiling when he realised this was probably not the best thing to say.
“I think so too – that’s why I wanted to keep it.”
Incredulous, Magnus furrowed his brow.
“I do massages. The place I work at named its slaves after different colours. So ‘Grey’ for grey hair – I’m so glad I would never be called ‘Lime’. They also got expensive chastity cages in matching colours for everyone. In hindsight that’s probably why it got sold real fast.”
Grey and Magnus wheezed, trying their best not to disturb the now fast asleep slaves.
“Then we found out we were company property, so we stayed with the new owners, but they already had masseuses, so I got sold off to an agency. Now I’m old enough that they’d do anything to get rid of me.
“You know, you should check how you’re owned too.”
This was a good time to simply let the silence be, and there was silence, save Magnus’ occasional moaning, and Grey’s occasional remark that lamented “if only you didn’t have to babysit these slaves”.
In contrast with his usual practice of eating with the other staff – he was an employee of the daycare after all, albeit with an unconventional role and an unconventional dress code – Magnus elected to eat in the canteen with the other slaves, though he always found it a bit of a misnomer.
Perhaps it was called such because people got food from a canteen-like counter, but everything else was distinctly not what one would expect of a canteen. It was laid out in a layout more reminiscent of an upscale restaurant – though with more big tables than one would expect – and had a stylish colour palette to match: dark wood for flooring, a contrasting tan for the walls, flat black ceiling, with half of the tables being black, and half white.
Magnus recognised the puppy, who had his hood removed, and was trying his best to eat out of the bowl in front of him in a designated corner “for puppies and ponies”. The muscle slave nodded his head at Magnus, as he carried his food – a large steak with legumes and with a cup of yogurt for dessert – to an empty table with a white tablecloth – the designation here that warned of slaves being allowed to eat at this table.
There were others he did not recognise. Some were obviously slaves as they were naked and led along, but some were clothed and came alone. It helped that the daycare employed a very talented chef, and that there was a demonstration held today for investors.
Magnus was apparently a small exception to the advance booking rule.
“Fettuccine with champiñón in truffle cream sauce plus apple juice suit you?”
“Isn’t it tortelloni these few days?”
“Frank told us to treat you ‘next time you came’, and our chef wants to try this out anyway.”
“Don’t wanna die a lab rat.”
“I promise we’ll honour your sacrifice if you do, and you’re insured anyway. Pretty please.”
Magnus’ dinner – fresh and bespoke – had cooled from being piping hot.
Granted, it was no foie gras, no delicate slow-cooked sirloin, no poire à la Beaujolaise, but his fettuccine was just as expertly made and would entice anyone to dig in.
And yet all he did was look around.
The ambience was warm and cozy, with filament lights draping the canteen in a nostalgic sepia, beautifully complementing the artwork on the walls: pencil and charcoal sketches of the shared playspace – no signature; a basket weave knot made with dog leashes – with a an engraved plate noting this was made by “F Branson”; a chain of collars – no signature; an oil of a blond, hairy slave on a leash smiling – signed by a Jean-François Gérin-Lajoie; and another oil by the same painter of the same slave sitting calmly on all fours, blindfolded and gagged.
Perhaps he was waiting for his destiny to come get him – he knew no better than anyone else, so aimless he seemed.
“Looking for me?”
Yes, this was who he was looking for.
Grey sat opposite Magnus, his dinner to be the default tortelloni with pesto and broccoli.
“You zoned out. We didn’t get trained to zone out.”
Flustered, Magnus fumbled with his fork to wind up a bite.
“Never said I blame you – you do this every day?”
Magnus vaguely gestured and grunted in the affirmative as he swallowed his first bite – he would have to report after dinner that this dish should go on the menu rotation after all.
(He was also thankful for not being poisoned.)
“Any time someone with a big problem comes in – volatile, we call them – we isolate them and I go undercover.”
“And other times you’re in the playspace and people do whatever they want to you.”
“Basically,” Magnus replied as he wound up another bite.
“If I’m not mistaken, the sketches are yours.”
“How’d you know?” Magnus gasped.
“The Gérin-Lajoie paintings are of you. They’re painted in such a way that slightly highlights cuteness but not to caricature or cartoonish levels, and the colours are almost exclusively warm. Mr Branson likes you, since he used old leashes and collars to make art, and some of those were probably yours at some point. I was mistaken – you probably wouldn’t have to worry about new ownership.
“I can’t think of anyone else more connected to this place. In other words, there couldn’t be anyone more likely to draw a playroom that has so little symbolic meaning to a classical mind.
“I went around and had a look – the signs were obvious.”
“Franklin Branson, but we call him Frank. Impressive.”
“We’re sex slaves trained to give people pleasure, but we’re also given courtesan training – being good observers, understanding art and music, table manners…”
“And you’re about to say regretfully how so many forget and just become sex beggars.”
“Maybe you feel the same.”
“Magnus, you give and give and give…”
“What’s this about?” Magnus, alarmed – even knowing this was poor etiquette and that he would get shocked back in training for it – looked up at Grey warily and spoke through busy teeth.
“I’ve seen it – don’t pretend,” Grey said, reaching over and putting his left hand on Magnus’ shoulder.
“You’re a caretaker, you do everything to make people happy, but did you know your shoulders were locking up?
“I had to massage you and pull you slightly away from those slaves to make sure you didn’t seize up.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Well…” Grey shrugged, “I hope so.”
Chapter 4 – The Beacon
No news is not good news.
In a hyperconnected society, that there is no news means something in the networks have gone catastrophically wrong. Such is the plight of Magnus, who frantically checked his phone for pings as it had gone silent, when he would usually get an update from Frank.
Magnus elected to take his “all-purpose” bag – packed with modified leashes and various cuffs and shackles – and head for the holding cells anyway.
“Jamie,” Magnus, huffing large breaths as he slowed from running speed, addressed the guard at the newly occupied holding cell.
“The archive servers are down all across the country. We got nothing on Anders other than the fact that he reported himself as volatile.”
“How long’s it been since Anders went in?”
“Approaching half an hour.”
“Too long. Take me in.”
After Jamie left the cell, leaving Magnus knelt looking wistfully at the cell door, Anders called out to Magnus.
“Are you a friend?”
Magnus spun around, revealing a small string of drool dangling at the edge of his lower lip that complemented his body language – torso rotations and puppy eyes and a bit of whining – to announce how helpless he was.
He also saw Anders. He was young, had a wiry build, had a cute mop of brown hair and a tribal tattoo on his left arm – no doubt applied by his latest owner.
Anders approached – as expected – to take a closer look at Magnus, who whined at a higher pitch and lightly tapped at the straps on his gag with his fists to request for help in taking it off. After all, Magnus “was not allowed to undo the bondage”.
His eyes, however, were drawn not to the austere leather cuffs and leash and gag straps. Instead, he was enraptured by Magnus’ pecs – how his fluff warped and undulated with every breath that he made – and by Magnus’ tightly gagged mouth that he was forbidden to do anything about.
Like a most delicate tap, Magnus’ mouth produced a crystal-clear liquid that ran down his lip and so humiliatingly “had” to be directed onto his beard, or onto his body.
“You can’t drool onto the floor?”
“Uh uh,” Magnus shook his head as little as possible.
“Can I play with you please? It makes me happy.”
Before Magnus realised, Anders was kneading his nipples, grinning from ear to ear when he saw that even a slave as masculine as Magnus would close his eyes, and moan and drool and so submissively pull his arms behind his back.
The gag and leash helped this image too.
The pain in Magnus’ very trapped cock caused him to cry out, at which point Anders pushed him onto the mat, fondling every inch of his gagged, golden friend, beginning with the crotch, up the belly, up the lush valley between the pecs.
“You’re so beautiful.”
Magnus choked as Anders pinned his forearm against his throat, discovering that he could not pull his arms apart – a double-ended clip silently secured his arms together behind his back.
It did not take long for the gag and Anders’ arm – perfectly sized to close down his airway – to get him unconscious.
Anders worked quickly, but the ten seconds it took for Magnus to become conscious again was only barely enough to secure his legs together.
“Doesn’t matter, blindfold can go on anytime.”
By “anytime”, Anders meant “as the sentence ended”. A yellow bandana was pulled over Magnus’ eyes and tied tightly around the back of his head.
The security cameras in the cell aimed their lenses at Magnus, who was immobilised in the centre of the cell, struggling to even find his balance.
“You’re a really fun toy,” Anders laughed, running his finger over Magnus’ chastity, “ and judging by your pre you really haven’t cum for three months.”
Magnus groaned as he fought off the daze from Anders sitting on his chest, which laboured for air.
“Can’t help but wonder how much more fun you’d be when you become just a teddy bear like you said you could be, just a toy that doesn’t need to make decisions.”
A rustle from Magnus’ left ear.
The piles of cushions.
He was on his stomach, so Anders was on his left, and an empty wall would be some way to his right.
Magnus rolled himself across the cell, feeling lucky that there was only a low thud from his muscled back as it found the wall, and not a blood-curdling scream from his nose doing the same.
“You can’t run anyway,” Anders just muttered to himself.
As soon as Magnus found the leash with his knees, he yanked it off by rapidly straightening his legs, at which point a small squad of guards rushed in, each armed with tasers and wearing heavy fabrics.
The first thing Magnus saw was a familiar face.
“As trained courtesans, we should pronounce our words properly,” Grey “reprimanded”, as he teasingly rubbed Magnus’ cheek.
If Magnus was fatherly, then Grey was grandfatherly; as soon as the blond slave was fully untied, the slave buried his head in his arms, like a child would his father.
Chapter 5 – Necessities of Defiance
The staff lounge was silent as clothed men evacuated the premises to go home for the night, permitted to give the naked kneeling man in the adjoining office that Frank used sympathetic looks, silent prayers, and little else.
Having been forbidden from removing his cuffs and his leash, and having been confined to the staff lounge after police questioning post his encounter with Anders in the morning, Magnus knelt with his head bowed in front of Frank’s desk, on which Frank himself sat for a better view.
A tap on Magnus’ left shoulder had him turn to see Grey, gagged and leashed and cuffed and locked in chastity handing him a gag.
Magnus wisely put it on as fast as he could.
“Grey, have you locked the staff lounge?”
“Yes, sir,” Grey tried to reply through his gag to the best of his ability, keeping his head bowed.
The addressee of this single word winced.
“You made a mistake today.”
Magnus nodded – his rather exaggerated movements, as if on cue, shook out a drop of drool, which he reflexively caught on his beard by straightening himself.
“‘Anders’ isn’t a slave.
“Graham Anders Farrant is a serial murderer; killed three slaves in the past five years with concentrated doses of muscle relaxant while they were tied up.
“He smuggled in an unmarked syringe claiming it was asthma meds, and a device that not only hacked into our security, but also replaced what we saw with convincing AI-generated footage. I have a lot of people to question and a lot of people to replace, might as well start with you.”
Grey looked across at Magnus, whose pleading in his eyes made way for sheer terror.
“I don’t need a slave who doesn’t know when to back off. You need a big punishment. Cuff your hands and feet together and get on all fours – your cage needs to be much smaller.”
The double-headed clips dangled from Magnus’ right wrist and right ankle. They were carbon fibre – light and easy to handle, and were crucially non-metallic which made them invisible to metal detectors that scanned the cells every day.
It took but a few moments, just as it only took but a few moments when “Anders” tied him up. Frank then placed a bowl under Magnus’ mouth to stop his drool from staining his carpet.
“Grey, help me remind this useless slave just how useless he is.
“And make him suffer more than he needs to.”
And removing his cage really reminded Magnus. For the first time in three months, his 7-inch cock that could weightlift a small cup at full mast regained its glory and sent potent waves of euphoric feelings straight into his head as Grey touched it.
As he whimpered and trembled, Frank produced a cage that, once locked on, would crush it into 2 inches at most.
Grey did everything in his power to push the head of Magnus’ highly sensitive cock back against his crotch, but it still took a lot of time and grunting as Grey had to keep his head above Magnus’ back, which served as his raincatcher. By the time the cage was securely on, the drops in Magnus’ drool bowl had come together to form a sizable puddle’s worth.
The “unnecessary suffering” for Magnus continued to pile on; Frank told Grey to shove a butt plug into Magnus’ ass using only drool as lubricant, and Frank himself applied nipple clamps to the blond slave, whose breathing by now was ragged and out of control, just barely able to stop himself from making any noise.
“Back on your knees.”
Frank, guiding Grey by his hand, took a step back and sat together on the desk, observing their handiwork.
As he straightened his back, the nipple clamps tugged a little downwards, which elicited a low groan from Magnus. Expecting to rest his hands on his chastity cage, he instead found empty air and had to actively move his cuffed hands another inch towards himself. His cock felt like it was about to explode as he pressed the butt plug ever harder onto his prostate, but even as intense as the sensations were, the cage was simply too restrictive to feel good about anything done to him.
“Good. See this handsome slave here?” Frank wrapped his arm around Grey – gagged and leashed and cuffed not so dissimilarly to how Magnus was, “He’s replacing you.”
“I’ll give you the keys to your cage – walk outside and then you can do whatever you want with this body.
“I don’t need you anymore.”
To Frank and Grey’s relief, Magnus finally reacted.
He finally snapped – he dove forward and held Frank’s legs as tightly as he could.
The gag in his mouth was his custom one that fit him perfectly and all but prevented speech, but anyone could understand his most emphatic scream – “please”.
“Shh, little boy…”
Frank and Grey worked simultaneously to relieve the “little boy” of his nipple clamps, butt plug, and gag, who heaved massive breaths amidst silent sobs that made his body look as if he was hiccuping. As soon as the bondage was off, Frank and Grey held him as tightly as they could, rubbing warmth back into a brutally shattered heart.
“I don’t want a robot that doesn’t care if it lives or dies – I want a cute little pet that understands he might have to push back when things aren’t going right, or when things aren’t fair. Even when your owner’s the one being unreasonable.
“You deserve good things, slave. You can ask for things.”
Frank and his “two slaves” huddled together on the floor, content with silence as all three of them – even Magnus himself – waited for Magnus to calm down.
“Shh, little boy…”
Chapter 6 – Days of Rest
As usual, Magnus woke up at 6:15 am, 15 minutes before his silent alarm which he disabled. He was careful, but the grey-haired slave sensed the movement.
The sun had risen not too long ago, the rays that filled the living room where Magnus and Grey slept gently warmed them.
“Get ready for work, Grey,” Magnus whispered, gently patting him on the back.
“We have a holiday.”
“Now what’ve you done this time?”
In record time, Magnus brushed his teeth, washed his face, brushed his beard, and put a leash on his neck, with Grey as his witness that he really did just do all of that in 15 minutes.
“Could we go for a walk, sir?” Magnus asked, as he knelt and offered the end of his leash on his hands.
“Because we aren’t ready yet – now help us pack!”
The stoicism in Frank quickly changed to bubbly excitement, so quickly that Magnus was not prepared in the slightest by Frank pushing him backwards and lightly scratching him all over.
The beauty of the moment was so unfortunately tarnished as Magnus cried out in pain when Frank made his way to the nipples.
Rushing, muttering “shit shit shit” under his breath all the while, Frank found his slave’s old chastity cage – the one that was actually comfortable – in a ziplock bag by his bedside, and did his best to replace the cage.
It was quite the endeavour – Magnus was wearing a small cage with an even smaller keyhole for a very large man. Being hairy all over did not help Frank aim either, and it took Grey thoroughly ruining Magnus’ own grooming to distract him from the pain.
“You should’ve reminded me.”
Frank surveyed the damage Grey had wrought upon Magnus. Magnus looked less like a furry slave and more an unkempt hobo – his styling efforts did not render his beard dainty like a dandelion puff, but it was delicate enough that running a hand through it was enough to make it seem as if hair tendrils were coming out of his face.
“Well, I know where we’re going first.”
“You have two very beautiful slaves, good sir.”
Indeed Frank did – the receptionist at the salon had an inordinate helping of eye-candy to eat as groomers spun Magnus and Grey around.
Frank was partly proud and partly embarrassed that nearly every patron who brought their slaves here was simply admiring them – one of them was asking Frank if he could pay him to scan them into 3D models, an offer that Frank refused, even if he had tech “that could capture the finest parts of their hairs and your heart with it”.
“I saw one on auction pushing almost a hundred grand even though this is such a new market, I hear he’s the door dancer at a really good nightclub now.
“And now these two of yours? Can’t say everyone likes super hairy, but super hairy is super rare. Ever think if they could fetch you half a mil’?”
“Older is cheaper, and I got really good deals,” Frank replied humbly.
Clippings of hair – both golden and silver – fell from Magnus and Grey as they exchanged laughs with each other and with their groomers.
“With that kind of mental conditioning too? Don’t kid yourself – the day they see an auction floor is the day they’ll make headlines.”
“Your master doesn’t take you to haircare places often enough, Magnus. Your hair is healthy, but it’s a little stiff for when you really want to style it.”
“I have to keep normal hair for my job anyway.”
“Interesting you should mention that,” the groomer paused his work on Magnus’ belly and looked up, “usually you wouldn’t get to choose how you like your hair, and you’d get the crazies talking like ‘I want exactly zero hair around the hole because my slave has to know his place, and you better take five hours with those goddamn tweezers because I’m insecure and I need my slave to look worse than I do’.
“Like, who do you think I am? You buy another slave to do that stupid shit for you.”
“But I like being hairy!” Magnus complained in a cartoonishly bratty voice.
Another round of chuckles.
However much Frank paid for the grooming, it was money well spent.
By creating a thickness gradient in their formations of hair, Magnus and Grey now had fur that caught the rays of the sun like flies in a web. The gold even more so than the silver, as Magnus simply had extra volume.
Here, on the sun-soaked park lawn, Magnus and Grey glowed proudly golden and silver like radiant gods as their hair threw light around.
A veritable crowd, full of envious eyes, looked at the pair, who sat calmly on a picnic mat facing away from the crowd with Frank acting as a “soft” separator between them.
After all, they were on vacation, and vacation time for the sex slaves that they were was perhaps the only thing more sacred than their owners, and rarer than orgasms.
Grey had found a knot in Magnus’ back and pressed against it with his elbow.
“You work hard, Magnus.”
“And it only took almost dying to get a day off – oh fuck…”
There was that knot again.
Amidst moans of pleasure, Grey lectured Magnus on how he had “lost his sense of self-preservation”.
“As slaves, we’re in danger when we have to serve people who can do anything they want. I know you’re trying to take advantage of empathy and decency – it’s a gamble where you win a lot of the time, but it’s still a gamble that you can lose.
“Good on you for actually keeping a failsafe,” Grey said, nudging closer to Magnus’ ear, “please keep using it if it means keeping this friend happy.”
Magnus turned around to see Grey smiling at him, that the crowd from earlier had dispersed (to his relief), and that Frank was returning with two wands of cotton candy.
Leaving slaves alone was ill-advised, not least because abductions were rather uncomfortably common, though a police officer was thankfully standing watch over the pair of slaves.
“Sirs,” the slaves greeted.
With a nod of the head, the officer turned and left – with a smile on his face, leaving Frank to feed his wands of pink vanilla and golden brown caramel to the slaves of corresponding colour.
It was a messy ordeal to say the least. How the slaves’ beards were so fluffy that it tangled strands of the candy floss in them did not help matters. Tiny constellations of spun sugar drew lines capriciously across the slaves’ faces – not that the lines were that apparent.
This time, Frank was content to allow an audience, which naturally formed anyway.
The slaves, sat on all fours, slowly ate their cotton candy – with Magnus sneezing once from candy tickling his nose, triggering an almost concerted “aww” from the audience.
With every bit of sugar down his gullet, Magnus felt a new little butterfly inside – of happiness, sweetness, love, and friendship. Judging from how Grey made the same faces he did despite being slightly older and hence supposedly less outwardly expressive, he must have felt the same.
The back and forth nudging confirmed this as fact.
Chapter 7 – The Mascot
It was not often Magnus has the luxury of observing slaves from afar in the large playspace – he gets treated like a body pillow a lot, which admittedly was not too inaccurate a description for his body.
It can get a little irritating, though one typically begins to appreciate what they had when they cease having it.
Watching slaves wrestle with each other and juggle rubber balls and do impromptu roleplay was fun, but he could use a hug, and it was the second day of Magnus’ month-long “pause” from dealing with volatile slaves – his job had fallen to Grey.
Magnus hoped his replacement would be alright, and rather desperately at that. Worry flooded his brain – he tried to answer as many questions as he could: whether Grey knew the cells well, whether he worked well with Jamie and the backup, whether he knew how and when to use his leash failsafe, whether he had any tactics. But “answering as many as he could” was not fast enough – yet more concerns piled on and even questions with an assured “yes” so petulantly reintroduced themselves into his to-resolve pool of worry.
“No, Magnus,” he whispered out loud to himself, “Grey knows everything you know and he can still teach you new stuff. He’ll be fine.
“He’ll be fine…he’ll be fine…”
Magnus was startled as a slave had sidled up to him – not as conspicuously as a marching band, but not as silently as an assassin in wait either.
Magnus shook himself – “assassin” was not a good thought to have, not so soon after recent events anyway.
“It’s been hard for me,” Magnus sighed, and slowly moved from a sitting position into one where he laid face up and could see the friendly face of his therapeutic interviewer – a tawny brown slave with well-proportioned muscles and a shiny bald scalp to go with the rest of his immaculately manicured body.
Magnus felt a kinship in this friend – empathetic, gentle, willing to talk, introducing himself without having to be prompted so that conversation would flow naturally.
Contrary to many other slaves, Valentin was much more averse to physical contact. Magnus found this out the awkward way. In hindsight, the rare sight of a slave wearing a jock while in conditions comfortable enough for full nudity should have been warning enough.
Thoroughly embarrassed, he punched his own thigh.
“Most people hug me; I’m sorry and I should’ve asked.”
In a slightly strange turn of events, Valentin pulled in Magnus and imbibed upon this pleasure countless others had enjoyed before him.
“You only have to ask, and I like thoughtful people like you.”
There was little silence between Valentin and Magnus after this – stories began to flow like alcohol at a Viking feast.
“We’ve put up those ribbon fences and put ‘look and don’t touch’ signs everywhere, but then there’s this fat old dude who stinks from a mile away trying to reach over and touch me.
“Don’t know how he got in, but bouncers kicked him out. Everyone who worked on the floor got a spa coupon, but I heard an accountant got one too so maybe it really was everyone.”
“You dance at Eclipse, right? Congratulations for getting a job there.”
“Eclipse has a lot of slaves like many other clubs. They take good care of them, unlike many other clubs. But you’re right – I dance at the door and now I’m the new face for Eclipse PR.
“Just like you here.”
“So I’ve been told,” Magnus said as he flushed a bright red. His red deepened with his next question of whether Valentin could show him some moves.
“We’re hosting a milonga next month – we’ve been learning some steps.”
“Don’t wanna shill too hard, but Eclipse does everything.”
With Magnus intrigued – he always wanted to try tango – the slaves moved to a more open area, slightly away from the others, and cleared a small space. Valentin lead, humming abridged arrangements of El Choclo and La Cumparsita at tempos slightly slower than what would be typical in performance, initially interspersed with more spoken words to remind Magnus of his moves, though those were later mostly ditched as Magnus not only settled into the dancing, but also into the music as he began humming accompaniment for Valentin. Any dissonance was written off as adding colour to the harmony, and Magnus simply continued his lines with brute force until they made sense.
The pair avoided advanced techniques like the gancho and boleo steps where the feet left the ground – not least because Valentin did not want a repeat of him kicking Magnus in his crotch when Magnus squatted instinctively when he should not have during an attempt of the gancho step, but also because they wanted to prevent unwanted attention.
It worked for a while, but it was inevitable that the other slaves would notice. One of the wrestling ones saw, but before he could gather a crowd, Magnus nudged Valentin to break their embrace.
“You’re good at this,” Valentin addressed a panting and sweating Magnus. Dancing even simple steps was athletic, and Magnus was having to make all 200 pounds of himself somehow move in a controlled way. It did not help that unfettered breathing was frequently demoted to a secondary priority as he had to sing out of the same mouth as he exhaled.
“We’re all cultured – it’s up to us to keep it that way or we just become toys.”
“Explains how you improvise so well.”
Chapter 8 – The Toy
Magnus was regaling an astonished Grey after lunch with tales all about his dancing lessons when a message from Frank appeared on his phone.
“Magnus, come to my office? Nothing serious, just wanna talk in person.”
“Let’s call it a cliffhanger,” Grey chuckled, reassuring a disappointed Magnus that he would listen to the rest of the story.
“I don’t normally do this, but…on your knees.”
True, Frank rarely had Magnus kneel, but as if enchanted, he quietly obeyed and knelt in front of Frank’s desk – the sight of his owner sitting on that desk conjured memories from three days ago.
Partly traumatic, but mostly happy.
“I’ve been thinking about the things I did to you.
“I liked it.”
Frank’s thoughts were unusually chaotic and seemed to conflict with his core philosophies. Magnus could see it all in his body language: how Frank’s gaze refused to meet his, how he shuffled about.
It was not common for sex slave owners to ask for permission. But Frank was not like any other owner.
“I want to tie you up and make you a plaything for the afternoon. I’m asking because it’s a fun treat for the slaves, but also because it turns me on.
“Because I love you, I need to make this clear as day: you can say ‘no’.”
“Whatever you want, sir.”
Magnus investigated a curious sound – he could not tell whether it was laughter or crying.
The sound apparently came from himself – it reverberated in his throat and skull in that characteristic way, identifiable even when blindfolded as he was. Even then, he could not tell which of the two it was – it was amazing how changing his pitch and his throat shape so slightly could modulate the feeling between playfulness, to anger, to melancholy, to anything in between.
The feathers tickled his nipples very effectively, as they had been tenderised by a pair of clamps, but compared to simply giving additional effect to tickling, he was far more occupied with what the ticklers did to the chain between his nipples.
Like a puppet on a string, Magnus danced when the chain danced, less like a tango, more like a drunken flailing, since there was only one chain controlling him. So amateurish and uncoordinated were his puppeteers that they could not agree on whether they wanted him to dance to the left or to the right. Regardless, they were asking the impossible – he was bound and gagged in a standing spreadeagle to a large rack and had nowhere he could dance to.
Magnus’ immensely beefy torso was the obvious target, and his tormentors naturally went for it first, giggling and cheering all the way. Once they were bored, however, they found his true weak spots.
The feathers had found the unarmoured sides of his torso, and the nooks between his caged cock and his thighs.
The relatively controlled moaning and groaning became a purely reflexive and almost panicked shouting, and that too soon made way for pleading.
Amidst laughs that prevented him from breathing, Magnus tried his best to beg everyone to “ease hop” – a gagged slave’s very best attempt to say “please stop”.
And somehow, they did stop. There were sounds of the plastic ticklers thrown on the ground, and someone even went up to him to undo the nipple clamps.
Magnus took this opportunity to catch his breath – people often went into a frenzy when they played with him and breaking up the scene became quite the awkward –
Magnus was thoroughly ambushed by the flogger, which hit squarely on his tender left nipple. From the audience’s view, there was a full second when Magnus was supporting himself with just his arms, pulling all 200 pounds of his muscle into the air, so shocking was the flogger, and they cheered for more.
Unfortunately for a minority of the audience who wanted to hear Magnus scream, he settled down rather quickly, and after ten lashes his panicked screaming became more measured again.
It became a sensual and erotic affair, as Magnus gyrated his hips to as if in a lapdance, albeit a lapdance where the dancer was bound and gagged, and would occasionally grunt from a flogger smacking into him. A heat slowly spread across his body from each lash of the flogger, and when he was comfortable, it stopped.
“Give it up for our slave!”
That voice was Frank’s – he was the one flogging him!
And the audience, just as he asked, thundered with cheering and applause.
Chapter 9 – History
“Nightmares and a headache.”
Grey could offer no sympathy to Magnus other than allowing him to rest his heavy head on his shoulder as they waited for sunrise. What seemed to be the aftermath of Magnus being tired out with flogging turned out to be something else entirely.
“It’s been a week. Should we…?”
Like a child pretending to be sick, Magnus held Grey’s arm – a plea in the negative.
“He’s restructuring the staff and he’s working with the police.”
“And so what?” Grey raised his voice above a whisper, “Please, remember what happened.”
“I heard,” Frank said.
Magnus and Grey, stumbling, spun themselves around and knelt facing their owner, who had been up early to type up various documents. Frank matched his slaves by kneeling himself, and embracing them.
“I’d give you pills if it was just a headache, Magnus, but I’m worried about these nightmares.
“Grey, I’ll drop you off at the daycare. Magnus, I’ll take you to Halcyon.”
Frank and Magnus arrived at an imposing facility – one of many – run by Halcyon Genetic Augmentation Research Body and Distributor Limited (or “Halcyon” for short), its design obviously and unerringly function-over-form, with even its facility designation “Facility 1” being shockingly laconic. It made no attempt at hiding or beautifying its monolithic tanks and solar arrays and satellite dishes. There was no poetry or sentiment in any of its contours.
It had a large car park characteristic of technology parks, yet it was barely half full. Halcyon has downsized their operation here since they moved their main operations to a new Facility Prime, and clients – former, current, or prospective – do not visit often.
“Five years ago I held your hand and walked you out through that front door.”
There was a witty reply about how Magnus, even after five years, was still prone to being so concerned for others that he would forget to care for himself. He could not bring himself to say it – this moment was one of great nostalgia.
Magnus settled with “I remember waking up that day and they told me I was going to see you”.
Halcyon Facility 1 had the operation model of a hospital triage, though it resembled anything but a hospital. For one, it made lavish use of its space, and where a conventional waiting area would cram in as much seating as possible, Facility 1 opted for a designer lounge that was positively overflowing with style, unlike its exterior.
There was a stylish use of wooden flooring, with certain oval parts of it being a complimentary green carpet instead, perfect for naked slaves with bare feet. On the green carpets were various sizes of couches and disc-shaped cushions. Completing the “modern vintage” look was an eclectic selection of objects, including large potted plants, and a light that wound its way from the ceiling to the floor in an ever-tightening spiral tube.
It could not be clearer that they were flaunting their abundance of space – practically everyone who would ever have to sit at a table in Facility 1 would use something at least as luxurious as an armchair. And so Frank sat down in one such armchair in front of the sole manned reception desk while Magnus stood behind him, his head bowed respectfully.
“Good morning, may I see his papers?”
Frank produced a binder from his bag and placed it onto the receptionist’s desk. On its beige paper cover was “Halcyon” printed in blocky capital letters, and “Magnus” written in the corner with a blue ballpoint.
This binder was not particularly thick at only six sheets, or twelve pages, but each page was dense with information. The first detailed Magnus’ appearance, body measurements, and his genetic sequence. The second page onwards was a chronological list of Magnus’ gene therapies and medical operations – a full eleven pages of dense medical terminology, and ten pages more than the usual slave would have.
After scanning a code on the first page, the receptionist returned the binder to Frank and Magnus, who read through it to pass the time while the receptionist did their busy work.
There were treatments that were as minor as one that improved his nail health, and another that marginally increased his lung capacity; and all the way up to much more major ones, with far-reaching and fundamental changes and effects. Nevertheless, all entries detailed the intentions of completing them – laws had been passed that permitted the augmentation of existing, primordial human traits and characteristics, but not the addition of non-human ones.
For one, there were unusually extensive operations that targeted Magnus’ innate ability to grow healthy hair. He was regularly dosed with very low concentrations of testosterone, which, when coupled with multiple modified treatments meant to reverse hair loss, created his hirsute body.
Magnus’ relative inability to lose his body fat was explained by one such modification to him. A remark in that entry indicates that he was “highly empathetic”, and that his body “could reflect this fact and be of further use”. Just as this gene therapy intended, his strong but not chiseled musculature has made him a great cuddling toy.
Additional treatments included an engineered resistance to psychoactive substances, improved resistance against the cold, and an eye surgery that rectified his myopia.
“Magnus, I know this is a lot.”
“No, sir, it’s really interesting,” Magnus reassured. Frank’s line was pre-empting an existential crisis that simply did not exist.
“I was designed to serve, and if this stuff helps me serve you, it’s good.”
“Sorry to interrupt, but your slave’s record will take a long time to verify given how much information there is. You should sit somewhere a little more comfortable.”
Frank was enjoying the fruits of his slave’s gene therapies – Magnus was the perfect size and build and touch for cuddling – when a suited man came out of a back room to address them.
“Good morning, Mr Branson. I understand your slave is feeling strange.
“Call me Daniel – we can talk in the back.”
Expecting to see a conference room, Frank was surprised to instead find himself sitting in what felt like a high school principal’s office, himself a parent to a student so unruly that he needs to be stripped of clothing, lose control over having sex, and be put on a leash.
“Have some water?”
Magnus obliged and had a sip.
“Magnus has been having regular nightmares for a week straight.” A nod from Frank prompted Magnus to explain.
“It’s always the same dream. Getting drugged, kidnapped, tied up, beaten. There weren’t any faces – I was always blindfolded and gagged, but I know.”
“Mr Branson, I’m afraid your slave is trying to slack off. Would you like us to punish him on your behalf?”
“No, I’ll do it myself.”
Magnus slept the entire journey back from Halcyon to the daycare. He awoke to Frank and Grey standing over his supine body laid out on a couch in the staff lounge, having apparently required some help to carry him here.
As he tried to sit up, Frank placed his hand on Magnus’ chest, clearly indicating that Magnus was to lie still. In line with his wish, Frank had removed his collar and leash to let him sleep as comfortably as possible.
Magnus surveyed his owner’s disposition. To his relief, nothing at all would suggest that he was judgmental or disappointed.
“I knew I wouldn’t get answers from Halcyon – I want to know what you think.
“I want to know why you went out cold from a sip of water when you have resistance to sleeping pills.”
Chapter 10 – The Fighter
Magnus’ prohibition from working in the cells with volatile slaves was over, but instead of relief that things were back to normal (since he really did enjoy this job), he felt extremely anxious as he received a report of his next slave.
“Warren, instances of hyper-aggression, very strong and agile…‘pit fighter’? Is this someone trying to kill me again?” Magnus asked, incredulous.
“Maybe,” Frank said, tellingly relaxed, “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”
And Magnus would – this was a final evaluation.
Instead of his old tactic of triggering empathy in whoever he was trying to speak to by having himself tightly bound, Magnus opted to go unrestrained barring his trusty leash with his panic button – he would need all of his physical faculties and possibly a squad of men with tasers to survive in that cell.
“Jamie, take us in. Remember our new script.”
Jamie led Magnus – who bounced around enthusiastically on all fours when he saw Warren – by the leash.
“Knew you were hungry for attention, little slave – how’s a big muscle man sound to you?”
Magnus barked enthusiastically with no small part of his reactions being genuine.
As Jamie left, Magnus was free to check out his cellmate – a 220 pound beefcake with chiseled everything: muscles, cheekbones, even his hands and feet, with hair in the crevices acting as shading to further highlight his musculature – albeit only for the blink of an eye.
Warren had closed the distance to Magnus and tackled him into the floor, ambushing him and effortlessly pinning his arms above his head.
His eyes were set quite deeply in his face, and as they narrowed they seemed oh so beastly. His mouth curled into an evil smile and growled a low note only a wolf could match, his coarse black beard finishing off his wild visage.
Then Warren laughed.
His beastliness dissolved as he simply dropped himself into a cuddling position.
“Got you good.”
Without the act, Warren was just another slave like Magnus. He even had the generally lovable face and enticing chest hair to match.
By this point, Warren had stopped restraining Magnus past having a hand on his waist – an act of appreciation for his company.
It was not common for Magnus to find himself outclassed in both size and strength, but it was not unpleasant either. He allowed himself to be cradled and occasionally stroked Warren’s beard.
“Rough sells the pain better,” Warren explained, “just like how your soft beard helps you bomb slaves with empathy.
“Don’t pretend – you work here and that leash of yours has a transmitter that probably calls in some backup for you.”
Having just had all his trade secrets decrypted and summarised in two concise sentences, Magnus dropped the charade.
“Name’s Magnus. Being this furry helps me check up on volatile slaves. I know your name and bits of your history.”
“Then you know I’m a pit fighter?”
“No, you don’t have recent scars or bruises. Officially you should be a labour slave without any sex drive, but you somehow have an erection from me humping you.
“I’ve told my truth – you tell yours.”
Right then and there, Warren divulged his story about being trained in a facility, and how he was given gene therapy every step of the way to highlight his muscles.
“I remember you, Number 9.”
“I was Number 7. That slave you’ve been buddying up with was Number 1. Everyone you remember was given more or less the same mods you got.”
A thousand thoughts circled in Magnus’ mind. This reveal should have felt far more momentous, and he should be happy that he was surrounding himself with his old friends.
Did he know all along and was in denial? Maybe this was simply so shocking that it did not register with his mind, like how getting extremely cold makes one want to remove their clothes.
“Magnus, these days Facility 1 uses cloning tech to create impressionable bodies – training is as easy as writing a program. We were trained conventionally with reward and punishment mechanisms.
“I know there’s probably a mic with those cameras, I don’t care. I only ask that you help me – I was owned by a gang and now I’m dirt cheap for it.
“You know what to do.”
Magnus tapped at his ear as he looked at the security cameras.
“Loud and clear?”
“Yes,” Frank replied, “I’ll buy him.”
“Welcome to our family, Warren.”
Chapter 11 – Appropriate Mindset
Today was a special day – not a single volatile slave in the cells, but the playspace was packed. Not counting Magnus, Grey, and Warren, there was an unprecedented eight slaves bouncing around, with all of their owners asking for them to be kept calm.
Frank was pleased to see his three slaves get along as well as they did. From what they told him, they already knew each other since their days of training, though it was almost certainly not the only reason for why they had a rapport with each other, and why they were able to coordinate a list of “events” on the fly.
No, they really had chemistry.
The morning began with Grey subtly nudging the slaves to talk to each other, with Magnus and Warren herding any distracted slave back into the circle. By the time they knew each other’s names, Warren challenged everyone to a friendly wrestle. He easily won against the eight slaves they were babysitting, but the trick was to antagonise himself and to hold attention.
What was originally just casual play became a rather organised affair. The eight slaves formed a small perimeter with some cushions and their own bodies – whoever touched it first would lose.
Grey decided to go in, with Magnus acting as referee.
“Young little man.”
Taking Grey’s taunt, Warren struck, though with his superior strength he ignored whatever feint Grey was planning and rammed him, sending the slave in a poised squat tumbling onto the floor.
However, despite Grey’s more advanced age, he was remarkably agile. In fact, he could often slip behind Warren – who had wrestled eight matches in a row by now – with a rather acrobatic manoeuvre that used Warren himself as a pivot point.
Spotting an opportunity as Warren tried to readjust his balance, Grey gave him a shove in that same direction he was trying to shift in, and followed through by pinning Warren’s arms above his head.
Expecting him to yield, Grey did not prepare for Warren kicking his leg and spinning himself around, which cut off Grey’s one good escape and knocked him out of the arena.
Even Frank – watching the fight on his screens – had to cheer.
Then the playspace fell silent. All eyes were on Magnus, whether they were watching directly or not.
Warren, panting heavily and with so much sweat pouring off of him that he looked like he just took a shower, was somehow still able to conjure up the stamina to issue one final challenge.
“Magnus, your turn.”
Magnus obliged. The ring of cushions and slaves reformed itself after Grey had crashed into it last round.
Grey pounded the ground with a fist.
Instead of trying the fancy tactics that Grey had employed, he instead replicated the charge that Warren did at the start of last round, and he followed through by climbing up the large mountain of sweaty slave…
…and kissed Warren on the lips, holding him there for five seconds before pulling away slowly.
“Your job really isn’t easy,” Warren admitted to Magnus with a tired smile on his face.
Five slaves were hounding Warren’s soaking wet body, oohing and ahhing as they sniffed at all his stinkiest parts.
“Still like the idea of being our resident cuddle toy?”
Did he now?
Warren eventually found a comfortable position with a slave in each arm, a slave on each side of his abs, and a slave at his crotch. Knowing that Warren had worked himself half to death for their entertainment, they calmed down, put their tongues away, and simply laid there.
Even with everyone content and calm, and with Warren “just lying down on the floor”, it was difficult to express just how overwhelming everything is. He had just known these slaves and yet he felt like he could do anything for them if they asked nicely enough.
As Magnus taught him, sometimes he had to distance himself to avoid getting carried away into another headspace and be led around when he should be the leader – it was this very mistake that almost got him killed.
“Still, make sure you can and want to handle the slaves you decide to hold,” Magnus added, gently suggesting that the slaves huddled around Warren’s abs should lie with him instead.
“Remember to give them all hugs and scritches equally.”
As Warren’s slave count went down from five to three – the one sniffing at his crotch joined the others in Warren’s arms – his face seemed to lighten up. He did as Magnus did – smiling, gently stroking, and cooing at his slaves.
Contrary to what Magnus claims he does, this was very clearly not a case of simply lying on the floor. It was a delicate balancing act between fatherly care and appropriate apathy – an act that was learned and refined over years of constant vigilance and reflection over his own actions.
And failure to do so resulted in death, apparently.
So, did he like this job?
Warren looked across the playspace at Grey, who was playing with the remaining three slaves who did not want a nap, and to his left at Magnus, whose arms held slaves so tenderly that made his heart go fuzzy.
He looked down at his slaves, all of them content as they played with whatever part of him that they could touch.
Yes, “his” slaves. Not his own, strictly speaking, but for the time they were here, he was glad to assume every caretaking role he could to make them happy.
They liked playing with his nipples, and his cock hurt in its cage, but he pushed through – some things are worth getting a little hurt for.
“Thank you. For everything.”
To be continued …
Metal would like to thank Taurus for this story!