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The MOSLA scout stuck to the local US Army base like a fly to a fresh turd. If the truth be told, his obsession was understandable, though it would have been frowned upon by those faceless bureaucrats higher up- a minor security risk; taking too many bucks from a single locale would attract unwanted attention…but the pickings were so damn rich!!! Even so, he was careful. Mindful of the job that paid so well and that he loved so much, snagging only a few now and then and, so far, things had gone well and no one at MOSLA had complained. He loved to sit in the car or, if feeling bold, get out and lean against the chain link fence, staring hungrily at the herd milling around the sprawling base on the outskirts of El Paso, hot sun beating down on the tortured hardpan, and the bucks most often stripped to baggy gym shorts as they ran their laps, jumped their jacks or just marched around with mindless zeal, in that case all sexily clad in crisp camo fatigues, white tees blazing in a bold ‘V’ under gaping collars begging for someone’s itchy fingers to fumble some buttons and get the lads acquainted with a taste of real discipline. The eager scout was happy to help things along but envied the snare who would complete the job and, far more so, the eventual buyer with the time and cash to enjoy the goods. Well, everything in proper order as he banked his money and hoped for eventual promotion to the status of snare.
He leaned back against the plush seat of his vintage Mustang and considered a couple of possibilities. Tracked for at least a month and surreptitiously researched, the scout was reasonably certain that a double take down was not only desirable, but imminent. That would put a fortune in his bank account, rate a much-deserved holiday at Club Med in Cancun, and (hopefully) flag his progress evaluation for the eagerly anticipated promotion. The set of studs were known buddies and that would go down well when their disappearance was reported, sort of a consensual deal, plotted together as the pair went AWOL for linked reasons impossible to fathom. Ethan Muller was the real score, all lean muscle and furry masculinity with handsome looks and a personality that would drive some abstractly militant Arab sheik flush with petro-dollars wild with pleasure. He was a flag-waving patriot and aficionado of classical music (on the sly), a veteran of advanced training in counter-espionage, including resistance to interrogation, and just plain killer good looking. At a mere twenty-three, Ethan was something of a rising star, and that was a little risky…but the hairy young buck was just too good to pass over, fairly begging a tag and eventual capture- he would provide days, and months, if not years, of intense pleasure as training progressed and his hard and hairy body was broken to the will of a determined master. Yeah, Ethan was a keeper and the scout was confident that the call would be appreciated…and then there was Ethan’s side kick, Tim Collins. Not quite as good looking, Tim, nevertheless, was no slouch; with a sultry, punch-me-please look of insouciant arrogance, aware that he was an eligible stud and reveling in it, kind of like Val Kilmer minus the bank account. Well, Tom Cruise would wait for another day- this pair would cap months of diligent stalking and the scout smiled as he made the final call, alerting the local snare to the details and, clicking off his cell phone, drifted back to dreams of the next scenario…if only he could score that coveted promotion.
Ethan Muller woke to another day that seemed like any number of others. He lived off base in some faceless lower middle class enclave on the outskirts of El Paso, good enough in the short run, functional and, besides, who gave a flying fuck if the grass died in the endless dry season? Ethan was a man’s man, hoping for a career in the highly competitive ethos that was the US Army and confident that he would succeed. He never considered any alternatives, but the strapping soldier was young and could, perhaps, be excused for his lack of imagination. He rolled over under the sheet, sweat slick already and vaguely lusting for a morning shower in the dry morning heat of summer time in the arid American southwest. Clad only in a pair of baggy plaid boxers, the tall stud stretched and contemplated the dawning day. He hadn’t heard the snare slip quietly into the apartment twenty minutes before and even now, as the still invisible sun began sending pearly tendrils of light over the eastern escarpment, Ethan unconsciously lived the last few seconds of precious illusion, assuming he was free and that all manner of things would somehow be well. The black clad figure looming in the bedroom doorway moved with the grace of a big cat; all coiled power and sleek silence, crossing the room in a couple of strides like a malignant, nearly imperceptible breeze. Ethan, for all of his vaunted training, was caught unaware in mid-stretch, casually scratching his crotch as the snare closed the gap behind him and a chemical soaked rag was clamped over his handsome face. No struggle, no drama- the hairy young soldier didn’t even have a last thought. ‘Back to sleep, big boy, we’ve got a ways to travel and, well, when you wake up…it’s going to be a brave new world you find yourself in. Are you brave??’ The snare sighed with pleasure and stripped the sheet off the boxer clad form of the unconscious buck, newly bagged and ready for wrapping.
Though MOSLA did everything in its power to ensure a smooth operation, a large part of that being an intense desire to remain well clear of the law and any unwelcome or uninvited scrutiny from the general public, there were certain procedures that represented unavoidable risks. These often depended on circumstances and nearly always occurred sometime in the first few hours as the newly captured bucks were taken down and brought into the anonymous safety of various levels of MOSLA enclosures. For this reason, the snares were trained carefully and paid exorbitant wages. Vetted largely for their instincts and ability to keep cool under pressure, the snare needed a sharp mind able to plan creatively and react to any number of unlooked for circumstances. The black van was parked, as unobtrusively as possible, in an alley behind Ethan Muller’s tacky apartment building. A back entrance had already been scouted and the snare knew he had to move quickly, crossing an incredibly dangerous few feet of open space between two doors- one the back entrance to the apartment and the other cold black metal with darkened windows. It was imperative to move before the sun lit up the scene and the concurrent pace of possible traffic sprang to life. Ethan was dragged limply from his bed and laid out on the carpet. The snare, thoroughly professional, nevertheless took a few precious minutes to scan his prize, stretching the unconscious stud on his back, hands over head and bare feet pointed toward the shadows of an open closet. Nice…very nice!!! Running a hand slowly over the ridge of stretched pecs- from damp, silky tendrils in the pits over the hard curve, lingering a while as a forefinger traced the perfect circle of one of Ethan’s nipples nestled in the short bracken of dark brown fur, down the arched rib cage to the taut belly; the long, supine form of the passed out buck, strangely passive as he slept all unaware, set the snare’s heart racing with lustful envy as he considered all that Ethan would endure in his new life. Knowing that precious minutes were ticking by, he nevertheless couldn’t resist the temptation to explore a little further, hiking the soldier’s boxers roughly down to his knees and whistling with appreciation as Ethan’s big cock and ample balls flopped out for quick perusal.
Damn!! Gotta get moving! The snare could see the light perceptibly brightening outside and, flipping Ethan over onto his stomach, quickly bound his hands behind his back then, hoisting the brawny bulk of the strapping soldier over one shoulder, staggered from the room. Luck seemed to hang in the still morning air as the short open space between apartment and door was traversed without incident or witnesses and Ethan, beginning to moan groggily as the drug wore off, was tossed into the back of the van next to a gagged, blind folded, thoroughly trussed and very pissed off Tim Collins; snagged in a similar way a few hours earlier. The snare heaved a sigh of relief and, allowing himself some time for quick fun, removed the blind fold and gag as he simultaneously ran a groping hand up the front of Collins’ tank top. The blond Val Kilmer clone emitted an outraged yelp, squirming to one side, and raised his voice an octave- part curse and part garbled cry for help. The snare had gambled on the soldier’s reaction and felt his dick harden in direct proportion to the straight stud’s resistance, nevertheless cutting off the histrionics with a balled fist connected to Collins’ handsome jaw, knocking him, stunned, onto his side. ‘We got ourselves a few minutes, boy, and it seems to me that you could use some stress relief. Something to calm you down…if you know what I mean?’ He placed one of his meaty hands on the pounding pulse at the base of Collins’ throat and with the other casually unzipped the stud’s jeans, pulling them and his shorts down in one smooth motion. ‘Well, well…will you look at this!’ Tim Collins’ rush of hot humiliation was vastly augmented by the fact that he was well aware of his ample endowment and had, in fact, often admired the proud arc of his big dick and low hung, walnut sized balls while alone in front of his bedroom mirror. A born narcissist, he was exquisitely conscious of the other man’s interested scrutiny and able to live the whole horrific scene through the stranger’s perception, soaking up the lust radiating inside the van as sure as the rising sun kissing the asphalt outside. He winced audibly as his cock was roughly fondled, probing fingers skilled with much practice, gliding up the shaft, pinching the phallic eye open, then moving lower to his balls- one after the other- and back again to the reddening head of his dick in a slow, even stroke. ‘Got to get you used to this sort of thing…’ Was it a threat or a promise?
Tim Collins’ hot cock leapt to the occasion, betraying its master with unseemly abandon; rock hard in the snare’s hand in less than a minute as the slow stroke up and down the long shaft expertly tapped the surging power nestled between the tall soldier’s muscular legs. At first he had tried to squirm away, but the snare’s other hand, passive but not idle, remained at Tim’s throat, wedged against his wind pipe, and the subtle pressure brooked no contradiction, ‘Hold still, boy, and enjoy the ride! That’s right…’ The stud shivered reflexively, feeling the sticky lubrication of precum heighten the sensations that had his groin on fire. He thought he had reached the depths of shame- panting unwilling pleasure while another man jacked him off- but can be excused for that naïveté, inexperienced as he was. Still, the lesson was relentless and Tim, though he attempted valiantly to send his reeling mind anywhere else, trying, for instance, to concentrate on his predicament…No, the throbbing urgency that both manned and unmanned him WAS the predicament …inched toward the edge of the abyss and knew, as sure as the rising frequency of spasms that had his cock thrusting against the calluses in the snare’s rough hand, that he would soon topple over the precipice. The proximity of that event- so private, almost sacred , and exclusively reserved for the occasional female bed partner and self-satisfied critique of a performance well done- was ripped from the proud soldier’s control and he felt the wound acutely, plumbing the depths of humiliation, or so he thought…until the grinning snare shifted his weight, giving Tim Collins a view of the other occupant of the van.
Ethan Muller swam languidly forward, caught in an odd colored haze, trying to remember something important…and opened his eyes. Though he certainly didn’t realize it at the time, his life had ended and a new one taken its place, but his first perception was of something familiar and that, perhaps, was one of the cruelest blows of what would turn out to be a very long and brutal day. ‘Timmy…?’ The unexpected sight of his friend’s face a few feet in front of his own heightened the sense of confused unreality. What was Tim doing in his bedroom?? Fleeting seconds that seemed to last forever, and Ethan shook off a few more cobwebs, focusing on a variety of sights and sensations that made it abundantly clear that the familiarity of his bedroom was as far away as mythical Kansas; he couldn’t move his hands or feet…surrounded by cold, corrugated metal biting into his boxer clad hips and naked shoulder…and Tim’s face all contorted with pain, half obscured by someone else… What the fuck!!? ‘Good morning, soldier!’ The snare, always accommodating, shifted to the side giving Ethan a clear, full length view of his good friend Tim Collins, trousers and shorts hiked down to his ankles and stiff bobbing rod, glistening wetly in the metallic light, gripped in one of the stranger’s hands, slowed now in its rhythmic pumping motion to a kind of holding pattern. As Ethan’s eyes widened with scandalized confusion, Tim Collins absorbed a valuable lesson; the depths of shame were uncharted territory and, up until now, he had been swimming in the shallow end of the pool. He mumbled something incoherent, the shock of his macho buddy’s gray-eyed gaze temporarily damping his dick’s traitorous hunger, but the respite was short lived. The snare jacked up the tempo, ignoring both Ethan’s disgusted query and Tim’s last agonized grunt of mixed denial and surrender, as the pulsing cock in his hard grip exploded, spraying a pearly arc of hot cream across the space separating the two soldiers, landing in pale sizzling patterns on the broad hairy chest of Ethan Muller who groaned as if his best friend’s splattering hot cum were some sort of brand.
First Night
The network of MOSLA’s deliveries, from capture to the system of offices, utility chambers and barracks where new slaves would be processed and remain until sold at auction, was highly complex and no expense was spared. These facilities, however, were necessarily few and far between and there were other, more local, temporary stops along the way. First up was a small set of holding cells in an out of the way location where shipments of bucks from a specific geographic area would spend the initial all-important night before resuming the journey on the second day to a larger, more centralized warehouse. There the bucks might wait for a week or more, undergoing some preliminary evaluations prior to separating and sorting before finally being shipped to their penultimate destination at one of the ultra-secure MOSLA training facilities.
The black van hummed along the highway, no need to stop for fuel- the snare packed his own. Careful to observe the speed limit, he kicked back behind the steering wheel watching the pair of bucks twist in their bonds, frantically picking at the tight knots, on a small screen mounted on the dash fed by a camcorder surreptitiously installed in the overhead light. If either one of the muscular and now thoroughly awake and pissed off soldiers got even close to wriggling free, the snare would pull over, administer a dose of much needed discipline, and otherwise make sure things were buttoned down nice and tight. Small chance of that, though, and, relaxed, he kept one eye on the straight highway and enjoyed the show in the back of the van with the other. Ethan Muller was bathed in sweat, caught in a storm of raw fury just begging to strike out. Instead, he thrashed on the floor of the van, stripped to his plaid boxers with flexed muscles and smooth white skin under the patterns of dark hair driving the watching snare wild with lust. Tim Collins sat with his back against the door and represented an entirely different but equally erotic picture; seemingly shattered by his experience at the commencement of the journey, made even worse when the snare forced him- with a well placed finger and threat of rear guard action that would make the jerk off seem like Sunday school- to lick his own cum from the hairy chest of his best buddy…he now sat in stupefied silence against the metal door, lanky body nevertheless tensed with pent up energy, afraid to look Ethan in the eye and (was it possible?) fighting back hot tears of pain or rage or just an overwhelming sense of shamed degradation. The snare licked his lips and smiled; what a day it had been and all before noon as he veered off the highway, up an unpaved track to a locked gate opened for him with alacrity, before finally pulling up before a low, well kept cinder block building. The sudden idling of the van seemed an ominous portent as the snare eased himself from the driver’s seat and onto the pavement where he stretched and then, sauntering behind the purring vehicle, opened the back door. ‘Time out, boys!!! Get you some chow and then I’d advise a beauty sleep- we hit the road again tomorrow.’
The pair of soldiers sat, despondent, in one of the holding cells; force fed and Ethan calmed down with a good old fashioned beating as two pairs of fists slammed into his gut powered by the hairy arms of thugs who probably would have beat the shit out of him anyway, even if he hadn’t been full of over-energetic attitude…it was true; both captives were dead tired and Ethan, still stripped to his boxers, shivered with cold. Though they couldn’t tell by looking, it seemed the next cell was more crowded than their own, at least judging from the murmuring chatter and soft sobbing of what had to be just a teenaged kid. Clicking hard heeled shoes in the corridor as a fat assed man in a white shirt took notes, while other, rougher sorts, stopped to stare at the confused group of captives taken from all walks of life but now each having something horrific in common; permanent guests of MOSLA, having crossed the point of no return, nothing would ever be the same again.
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