Email: Amalaric
BACKYARD BRANDING
A hefty tax rebate coupled with the Bush administration’s $600.00 economic stimulus incentive put Fred Ryder in a fine mood. He made a comfortable living anyway, pulling in some decent dosh as a computer programmer and had a house in the suburbs half paid for and free (so far) from any fallout from the sup-prime lending crisis. Fred was canny with his money and avoided financial scams, high powered or otherwise, with several thousand tucked away in the bank and the will to drop some of it on those little luxuries that made life enjoyable. He contemplated taking a cruise- maybe up to Alaska or, better yet, around the Bahamas- but was dissuaded by a hair-brained idea born one night while watching an ad on the TV.
The local slave emporium, anxious to stimulate its own flagging profits, launched a public relations blitz of cut rate products and prime stock reductions that saturated the local airwaves. Fred was surprised, never having considered purchasing a slave before; careful with his hard earned cash, he hadn’t really seen any reason to do so…but the two minute commercial wedged in between bites of the local news show set his mind spinning along twin trajectories- one conscious, the other far more subtle and difficult to describe or acknowledge. On a practical level (and this was the way Fred justified his eventual decision to check out the dealership), the thought of owning a slave held some definite advantages. He was a couch potato at heart and wondered dreamily what it would be like to have a young buck at his disposal to do the work in the front and back gardens, keep the house clean, take care of his laundry, cook and serve meals, and wash the car on Saturday afternoons. Some quick mental calculations made things look financially attractive. With minimal overhead- just rudimentary room and board- no wages or any other excessive upkeep; the possibilities were intriguing. And then there was that other reason, less definable, that tickled the back of his mind (and tingled in his suddenly itchy groin) as he watched the parade of prime flesh flash tantalizingly on the television screen. Handsome young studs in a weltering variety of height, color, build or any number of other things, all clad in canvas trousers or blue jeans…and stripped to the waist in order to show potential customers their obvious muscular attributes. Fred was riveted and suddenly intrigued. Perhaps that cruise to the Bahamas could wait a while. He adjusted his trousers, suddenly tight at the crotch, and resolved to drop by the emporium first thing after work the next day.
The reception area of the slave dealership was well appointed and comfortable. Fred fixed himself a free cup of coffee and, seated on a burgundy upholstered chair in the pleasant air conditioned environment of tile, glass and plush carpet, was handed a catalogue by a smiling receptionist and tactfully left alone to peruse a welter of possibilities. Thumbing through the glossy pages, his eyes devoured the color pictures and descriptions of the stock offered for sale and Fred whistled softly under his breath at the prices (even discounted) of the high-end bucks in the thoroughbred categories. Ploughing on, and patting the wallet stuffed with multiple credit cards in his jacket pocket, the suddenly avid customer refused to give in to a sense of discouragement. Stumbling on a medium price range series of young studs in a category called ‘Zack’ somewhere in the middle of the catalogue, Fred suddenly felt like he had found his financial niche and settled down to a serious perusal of available options. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Fred motioned to an unobtrusive employee who smiled at the unmistakable gleam in his eyes. The attentive floor salesman glided over with a fresh cup of coffee and sat down next to his potential customer. ‘I’m interested in the ‘Zack’ line and think I may have found something.’ He pointed to the full page glossy spread on page forty six of the catalogue, ‘9-A, is he still available?’ The clerk excused himself, did a fast check of the invoice roster, and returned with a wide grin that told Fred Ryder everything he needed to know. ‘May I have a look at him?’ ‘Certainly,’ the clerk was all efficient obsequiousness and, ushering his eager customer into a well-lit examination cubicle, encouraged Fred to make himself comfortable promising to return with Zack-9A in a few minutes.
The Zack, called 9-A, was all Fred Ryder had hoped for. The young buck was ushered into the examination cubicle looking slightly apprehensive but also expectant; his strong features, not classically handsome but cleanly masculine, arranged in a mask of disciplined subservience that spoke well of his training received at the stud farm run by the company. He was dressed in blue jeans, clean white tee and tan work boots that did nothing to hide his broad shoulders, narrow waist and well proportioned muscular build. The helpful clerk ordered 9-A to mount a low dais in the center of the cubicle and stand, head bowed, legs slightly spread and long arms hanging loosely at his sides as his potential owner walked around, checking out various views of the stud’s build and noting his deportment. 9-A’s teeth were checked- straight and white- and he was made to strip off his tee and lower his trousers, giving Fred a full view of the buck’s muscular potential; smooth, deep chest and broad back, nicely rounded shoulders and thick neck, rippling abs, and long, well shaped legs. He was wearing white briefs under his jeans and Fred found himself hoping that these would also be lowered…but it wasn’t to be (it seemed there was some sort of prudish city ordinance prohibiting genital exams in the showroom). Noting, however, the substantial bulge denting the soft cotton, the salesman assured his customer that 9-A had been thoroughly checked out in that area and that everything between the stud’s legs was in fine working order. ‘Of course, for a minimal extra charge we can have him gelded for you…that is if you prefer, but really I can’t see any reason for it. 9-A has been carefully trained with the whip and strap and, though he can be spirited, doesn’t seem to require such a radical incentive to docility. Besides,’ he smiled, ‘this one’s a potential breeder and could, if properly handled, return something of your investment.’ He winked suggestively, ‘You’ll see what I mean when you get him unwrapped at home.’ Fred was convinced and nodded. He asked about the advertised discount, sighed, and said, ‘I’ll take him.’
The Zack 9-A was ushered from the cubicle and taken to where he would be showered, groomed, and otherwise prepped and processed for delivery. The paper work was signed and Fred produced his Visa Platinum card, gratefully accepted by the garrulous clerk. He had a few minutes to kill before 9-A was returned to the salesroom and, fully realizing that this delay was calculated by the company, spent some time perusing an accessory shop where it was hoped he would drop some extra money. Fred was fascinated by the bewildering array of goods on display. Ah, what the fuck! I just dropped close to two grand on 9-A (he shivered as his dick leapt for joy in the confines of his trousers), so what’s a few dollars more??? Well… ‘a few dollars’ was something of an understatement. The shop was littered with a bewildering array of accessories. There were any number of items designed for restraint; from ponderous wooden stocks and even a nine foot X-frame, to delicate cuffs and name brand manacles of shiny stainless steel. Fred threw caution to the winds and ordered the X-frame (already imagining it as the center piece of a refurbished basement game room) for a cool $875.99 (including delivery). He added a supple leather whip of multiple strands to his carry-all basket, and continued up the isle. Well, maybe I’ll be able to afford that trip to the Bahamas in my next life… The wistful thought was really wryly humorous; Fred felt like a kid in the proverbial candy shop. Some cuffs, a studded collar and a metal bowl- with the promise that ‘Zack’ would be engraved on it right there while he waited- piled up in the basket. ‘Sir!’ It was the clerk from the showroom, ‘Your new slave is ready and waiting to be picked up.’ ‘Just a minute…’ Fred was understandably eager, but something had caught his eye. A wooden stand at the end of the isle held a fascinating array of long metal rods with the self-explanatory label ‘branding irons’ emblazoned above in bright orange letters. What the hell! Fred thought, and tossed one into his basket. Satisfied, at last, with his loot, the happy customer opened his wallet once again as the items were neatly wrapped and then bagged. The checkout clerk twirled the branding iron and pointed at the end; a jumble of curving bands of metal. ‘Do you have a design in mind, sir?’ Fred looked nonplussed. He was handed a pen and blank piece of paper and the helpful clerk explained that the shop would fashion the business end of the brand to Fred’s specifications- on the spot, while he waited. ‘Right!’ Fred smiled and drew a fancy monogram of his own initials- FR- on the paper. Forty five minutes later, heavy bag laden with goodies clutched in one hand, Fred Ryder found himself standing once again in the showroom where his Zack 9-A waited passively for delivery. The buck was a sight- scrubbed clean and carefully groomed, lightly oiled and stripped to the waist for effect (two full changes of clothing were carefully wrapped and rested on a counter); hands loosely manacled for effect, his handsome chest, all hard planes of glistening muscle, and flat, iron-hard abs tensed with nervous apprehension. ‘That’s great!!’ Fred smiled and, looping eager fingers around the Zack 9-A’s chained wrists, led him eagerly to the waiting car in the parking lot where the escorting salesman ritually removed and pocketed the cuffs (to Fred’s disappointment), handed the giddy customer a receipt (including a six month warranty) and 9-A his clean tee shirt, which the buck grateful put on. The salesman and proud new owner both smiled as the nervous slave eased into the back seat.
With Zack (the name seemed appropriate) in the back of the car, Fred fairly squirmed behind the wheel of his SUV for the whole length of the short drive home (fuck the rising price of fuel- it had been, until now, one of his few extravagant luxuries). Once there, he ushered the new slave into the spacious living room of the house, commanding him to stand at attention while his proud owner sat for a few minutes in an over-stuffed chair, checking out the merchandise with all the pride of new ownership. Various sundry ‘getting acquainted’ details followed, as Zack was shown his small cell in the basement with a mattress on the floor, a tiny bureau for his clothes and a sink for watering and washing, and given a short tour of the premises. Throughout, he remained nearly silent, eyes downcast, observations and directions answered with a resonant ‘Yes, sir’ that did him credit and sent a thrill through Fred, rapidly inebriated with a new and unaccustomed sense of authority.
Suddenly, Fred remembered the plastic carry-all bag packed with goodies from the slave dealership. Zack shuffled nervously as his master emptied the contents of the bag onto a coffee table in the living room. ‘Can’t wait to try some of this stuff out,’ muttered thoughtlessly while the muscular young buck eyed the merchandise with wide brown eyes. Fred twirled the shiny new pair of cuffs on his extended forefinger, watching as Zack heaved a deep sigh. ‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ Zack’s long fingers fluttered at his denim-clad sides as he muttered, with head averted, ‘I guess so, sir.’ The short, supple leather whip of multiple strands gleamed blackly next to the cuffs. ‘Brochure said you’ve been whip trained?’ It was a rhetorical question that, nevertheless, demanded a reply. ‘Yes, sir,’ Zack answered, voice low with just a trace of fearful hesitation, ‘bucks get out of line sometimes…’ Fred watched, fascinated, as the young stud’s adam’s apple bobbed with anxiety, ‘and need some discipline. Usually the strap, but sometimes a cat like you got there to, uh, enforce the lesson. But I swear, sir…’ Fred interrupted, ‘Take off your shirt, boy.’ Zack paused, but only for a few seconds, liquid eyes imploring without any real trace of hope, and peeled the white tee off revealing his magnificent torso. His hard muscles still gleamed with traces of aromatic oil from the show room- Ahhh! That ‘new slave’ smell!!! - broad smooth planes of his chest with chiseled pecs and bronze nipples tapering to eight-pack abs and a belly as flat as a frying pan; all centered by rounded, well-muscled shoulders, massive biceps on long arms with wide, hairy wrists…Fred felt suddenly lightheaded and frantic to do in the privacy of his home what had been forbidden at the showroom. ‘You’re a fine looking buck, Zack.’ The matter of fact compliment had little effect on the skittish slave, clearly nervous and struggling with a rising tide of anxiety betrayed by the hammering pulse at his throat. Fred’s mind was racing, wanting to savor these first moments, anxious to establish that special ‘rapport’ between master and slave that all of the handbooks claimed was so necessary. He glanced through the sliding glass door to the patio and expanse of lawn out back. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, with a blue, cloudless July sky, dryly hot but not oppressive. Suddenly, he felt inspired.
‘Turn around.’ Zack obeyed, facing the sliding glass door, broad muscled back to his master, just begging (Fred reckoned) for a first taste of the virgin cat laying on the coffee table. Fred bent over and hefted the whip. He ran the butt end of the handle down the deep ridge of Zack’s spine from the nape of his bull-like neck to the peach fuzz disappearing into the waistband of his levis, noting the light tremor that shook the scared buck’s tall frame. ‘I don’t expect that you and I will have any problems,’ Fred remarked, stroking Zack’s muscular flanks (Damn! Not an ounce of fat on this guy!) with the ridged handle of the whip, ‘but I think it might be a good idea to give you a little taste, here and now, of what might happen if you…ah…’ he struggled gleefully with an unaccustomed vocabulary, ‘get out of line.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ Zack waited, head bowed, for the inevitable. Fred ordered him to lean, arms raised and hands flat, against the wall next to the sliding glass door. Gripping the handle of the whip like he was born to it, Fred cocked his arm and let loose with a hard slash that smacked against the warm flesh of Zack’s back with a satisfying snap. The slave groaned and shifted his weight against the wall. ‘How about a couple more, just for emphasis?’ Fred laughed and was gratified by the whispered baritone, ‘Yes, sir,’ as Zack braced himself against the wall. Two more followed, laying a crisscross of reddening welts against the tan muscle of the slave’s arched back, this time stifling his groans, suffering in a stoic silence only punctuated by the hiss of released breath as the whip landed on jumping muscle and was withdrawn. ‘Good boy,’ Fred muttered and, a plan forming like a fever in his whirling mind, motioned to the sliding glass door and sunny expanse of garden outside. ‘Let’s go outside, Zack, so I can have a long look at you in the bright light of this beautiful day.’
Zack was shown around the place, acquainted with various jobs that needed doing and otherwise oriented to his new role in the household. He hadn’t been invited to put his shirt back on and Fred noticed a light sheen of sweat appear in the dry heat on the buck’s naked torso. Finally, ambling up to the edge of the patio, where a strip of grass bordered a cedar plank fence, Fred paused and, licking his lips, decided this was as good a place as any for the long-anticipated display. Zach was ordered to stand with his back to the planks and Fred tried out the new cuffs, shackling the buck’s muscular arms over his head to a bracket mounted on the top upright beam of the wood fence. Zack submitted, masking the curiosity of dread anticipation, wondering what the new master might have in mind. ‘Time to get you unwrapped, boy.’ Fred buzzed with a different kind of anticipation, reaching for the tall stud’s belt which he hastily unbuckled, ‘I’ve been dying to get you stripped down since that salesman made you drop your trousers back at the showroom.’ He casually unbuttoned the fly of the resigned slave’s blue jeans and hiked the trousers down the long expanse of hairy legs, fumbling Zack’s boots and socks off, and tossing everything in a pile on the grass. The buck was nearly stripped, shifting uneasily against the wood clad in nothing but his white cotton briefs, waiting on his master’s pleasure… Fred paused, scratching behind one ear, admiring the fine sight of his new slave dressed in classical fashion; loose limbs bared to the elements, plain loincloth riding low on narrow hips, a minimal nod to propriety if not modesty. ‘You know,’ His look was pensive, catching Zack’s soulful gaze, ‘I think that from here on out all you need to wear, at least while you’re working around the house and yard, is what you have on now, Zack. Weather’s nice and a healthy young buck like yourself is properly dressed in nothing but his briefs. Is that clear, boy?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ Zack nodded, staring at the ground, knowing full well that soon enough he would be wearing less than that. Fred quickly obliged, hooking hungry fingers into the supple elastic, and pulled Zack’s shorts down around his ankles, ordering him to kick them off and then spread his legs. He then produced a length of thin nylon chord and bound the buck’s legs to twin brackets at the bottom of the fence, immobilizing him, finally on full display.
Zack stood, stripped naked, broad chest heaving with deep, even breaths as he leaned against the fence. The master had a right to examine his merchandise and this moment, though dreaded, was not unexpected. Fred whistled with unfeigned pleasure, noting the smooth expanse of near perfect musculature- from handsome face, averted in submissive resignation, to the magnificent symmetry of perfectly proportioned physique, tanned neck to splayed feet and everything in between. Zack’s body was relatively smooth, though peppered with fine hair on his forearms, thicker on his legs, with curling silk in his deep pits and a lush brown triangle of wiry pubes at his groin. His cock and balls hung lit by the afternoon sun; well proportioned, weighty and packed with potency. A young buck in his prime is truly a sight to behold , Fred thought as he eagerly hefted Zack’s heavy balls, balancing them in his palm, measuring his considerable investment. He spent some time stroking the warm shaft and head of the slave’s thick penis, testing its length and width, thoroughly satisfied by the induced erection; hesitant at first, but finally blossoming to a hot rod of arcing iron bobbing in the light. Looking up, Fred was amused by the sight of the stud’s eyes screwed shut and a bright blush suffusing his broad face. ‘Got to get used to this, boy,’ he quipped, ‘I think periodic checks on my investment will definitely become part of your routine.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ the slave mumbled, and shifted against the splintery planks.
Fred took the better part of an hour exploring Zack’s magnificent body, helplessly splayed against the unyielding wood of the fence- every nook and cranny thoroughly, even lovingly, examined. The sun was definitely dipping past its zenith as the master looked up, suddenly hungry. It had been an eventful day. Leaving Zack in his bonds, he bustled around for a bit on the patio, watched carefully by the anxious young slave who would have given anything to lower his leaden arms, pull on some clothes (even the worn pair of white briefs that had become his ‘uniform’) and maybe (joy of joys) allowed to go to his room for some time alone to grapple with the awesome new realities of his situation. Fred had other ideas. Emptying a bag of charcoal into a stand-up barbecue recently purchased at the local Walmart, he sprayed on a liberal amount of lighter fluid and leapt back as an orange fireball leapt to life. Fred laughed and, turning toward Zach, said, ‘Shit, Zach, last week was the 4th of July and I didn’t even bother to celebrate.’ The slave remained warily silent as his master continued, ‘Feel like some dogs and burgers, boy? Maybe even a bottle of beer…if you can do some tricks to earn it.’ He winked and burst into laughter. The fire subsided to rapidly glowing embers and Fred succumbed to the atavistic sight, staring at the ripening coals, blank mind groping for an elusive detail… His eyes brightened. ‘Damn, I almost forgot!!!’ He disappeared through the sliding glass door and soon returned loaded down with the accoutrements of the holiday feast…and the branding iron. Zack’s eyes widened and he reflexively pulled down on the chain binding his wrists overhead to the fence. Fred tossed the food on a nearby table and fondled the long iron for a few seconds before placing it gingerly on the glowing coals. ‘Please, sir…why…’ Zack sounded like he was choking, pale with fear, eyes riveted on the brightening iron, ‘…why do you want to do this to me, sir? I didn’t do nothing wrong…’ he trailed off, squirming against the fence. Fred put on a glove and hefted the iron, which seemed to glow with a light the same color as the setting sun. He noticed a single tear course down the smooth track along the line of the buck’s clenched jaw and shrugged. ‘Because you’re mine, boy. That’s all.’ Zack shook his handsome head in futile denial and Fred pitied him (a little). He was also slightly concerned about alarming the neighbors and, reaching out, offered a folded dish towel for the terrified slave to bite down on in order to muffle the audible sounds of agony that were sure to come. Zack gratefully bit into the soft cloth and turned his head toward a far corner of the yard as his master approached with the iron wobbling in shaky hands. Steadying himself, he quickly perused the stunning canvas of his slave’s naked body, not wishing to spoil any of the more delectable views until, finally deciding on the bunched muscle to the side of the buck’s upper left thigh, moved forward and, aiming the brand, took a deep breath and thrust the glowing iron against Zack’s tan skin. He was glad he had thought of the old dish rag as a rumble of bellowing agony rushed from panting lungs and hit the cloth clenched between his slave’s perfect white teeth, blunting the sound (if not the pain) as Zack twisted violently away from the following brand. The smell of sizzling flesh mixed with the smoke of the barbecue and, soon enough, the aroma of sizzling hot dogs thrown casually on the grill. Zack hung limp against the rough planks, tears streaming down his face and dripping on the grass until Fred cut the nylon cords at his ankles and uncuffed his hands. He was proud of his boy and certain of the quality of the memorable day’s considerable investment as the slave staggered but didn’t run or fall or (far worse) strike out; rather, standing, swaying just a little with head bowed in his naked, newly marked glory. Zack looked up at the sound of his master’s approval. ‘You did good, boy,’ and Fred really meant it. He popped a beer and poured the contents of the can into the stainless steel bowel engraved with the slave’s name. Setting the bowl on the patio, Fred motioned and Zack sank to his knees. ‘Drink up, boy, you deserve it.’ And, nearly choking up with emotion, Fred added, ‘Welcome to your new home’
