The Telemachus Story Archive

Modern Slavery
Chapter 5 - Rogue Traders
By Amalaric (Illustrated by Amalaric)
Email: Amalaric

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Raytown, Missouri seemed like several light years away and that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing; Orville (‘Chaz’ to his friends) Rollings took a deep breath of the acrid, sooty air of adventure and leaned back for the hundredth time, scanning the skyscrapers that lined both sides of the buzzing boulevard, struck once again by a sense of déjà vu. He had never been to New York City before, had never in fact been further than a fast trip to the suburbs of Detroit to visit his dad’s sister and pack of unruly cousins as a teenager, but couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that somehow he had been here before. He spun crazily on the sidewalk, leaning backward, handsome blond head cocked at an impossible angle on his muscular, bull-like neck, to the audible irritation of pedestrians unimpressed by yet another hick tourist making a scene. His buddies, all of the men’s softball team from some un-nameable Raytown neighborhood, whooped it up, undaunted by the rude rejoinders of the locals- this was NYC after all and folks were supposed to act like assholes in the face of all-American innocence. It suddenly hit him. Chaz turned to Rick Martin, wide eyed with wonder. ‘I got it Rick! You know why it seems like we all been here before?’ His companion frowned and shook his head. ‘It’s because we’ve seen all of these streets and buildings and stuff…like, a thousand times, in the movies!!’ ‘Fuckin-A, man, that’s it!’ Rick’s liquid brown eyes widened in admiration; Chaz led the pack, of that there could be no doubt.

The team had been in the City for nearly a week, chartered bus and no-star hotel paid for with blue collar earnings; a well-deserved perk to lighten the burden (though none would admit it) of life lived in recession plagued Raytown; cocooned in a stranglehold of banality by encircling Kansas City, where even the local Walmart had recently closed its doors and moved on in search of brighter plastic. Cory Hoffman slapped Chaz on his broad back, stinging slightly under his tee worn casually against the humid New York heat, ‘Check it out, man!’ He leaned toward a plate glass window fronting some swanky shop on 5th Avenue, breath patterning the glass with a curious fog. ‘What the fuck are those things for…and can you believe the prices? Looks to me like the soap carvings my boy makes in cub scouts.’ The team leaned forward in unison, gazing at a carefully arranged array of antique ivory Japanese netsuke on the other side of the glass. ‘Shit, guys- check it out!’ Jack Whalen exclaimed, reading the tags, ‘You mean to tell me those things are some kind of fancy button ?’ The group shared a patronizing laugh, marveling at the strange lunacy of honest to God metropolitan America, though not missing Raytown…much. ‘Hey!’ Chaz, naturally, was the one to choose the direction, ‘I’m hungry guys- what’s for lunch?’ A chorus of macho shrugs greeted the remark as he thumbed open the well-worn map of the city purchased at the bus station tourist office. ‘Hey guys, here’s a place that looks like it might cater (they all laughed) to our style- Virgil’s Bar-B-Q…ummm, somewhere between Broadway and Sixth Avenue...’ he glanced at the street sign, ‘we’re not too far from there.’ Agreement was preordained and the team turned on a collective heel and headed toward the eatery.

Though they were entirely unconscious of the fact, the Raytown men’s softball team turned more than a few heads as they crowded through the door of Virgil’s sometime near mid-afternoon on that fateful day. A few of the guys were married, the rest were single; all were in their mid- to late twenties, good looking and fit, somehow ‘scrubbed’ looking and clean in a small town way that world weary New Yorkers noticed and envied but would never acknowledge, not even to themselves. Chaz led the pack- five foot ten, solid lean muscle with an open boyish face under a close cut thatch of deep gold hair…and the rest of the excited studs followed all uncaring, bellies rumbling, thoroughly edified by the canned rock and roll/country fusion blaring from the overhead speakers and the bevy of foxy waitresses nodding with appreciation as the group sauntered over the threshold. Burgers, fries and all sorts of extras followed, spiced by stories of what had, so far, made the biggest impression, a debate on whether the women of New York had it over those of the Midwest, and so it went…well, at least as far as Chaz and the gang were concerned. Unselfconscious, he and his buddies never registered the interested stares of some of the patrons and there was no reason why they should have, except for a pair of business-suited thugs kicked back in a corner of the restaurant. But the place was crowded and the Raytown boys were full of themselves and the heady spirit of unfolding adventure.

The MOSLA people maintained a large staff in NYC, but weren’t cruising Virgil’s that hot summer day. No scout, much less sinister snare, perused the studly possibilities seated all uncaring in denim and sweaty tees around a table laden with fast food. Even so, life for the Raytown boys was about to take an abrupt turn for the worse. ‘You looking at what I’m looking at, Garret?’ The dapper thug sipped his coke pensively from a plastic cup and nodded. He sniffed and fidgeted on the uncomfortable seat, reminded of another kind of coke stashed in his front pocket…and wanting it bad. ‘I’ve got my sights on some mighty fine potential,’ he replied, ‘not bad at all. But, Louis, that’s a shit load of meat carrying on over there. You maybe thinking of isolating one from the herd?’ ‘Hell…’ Louis sighed, staring intently at Rob Corbin- six feet of handsome, dark haired masculine perfection; all lean muscle laid out in classic proportion with wide shoulders and well defined pecs bulging under his tee, flat corrugated belly outlined by flimsy cotton dipping down to loose levis held up by nothing more than the shelf of his hard, round ass. ‘Well, yeah…but,’ another pause somehow audacious as it commanded thoughtful silence in the noisy restaurant, ‘what the fuck, man. Whadda ya think about taking the whole lot?’ His partner’s eyes widened, but he was clearly considering the possibility as he mentally stripped Chaz Rollings buck naked in the center of the crowded room, wondering if that thatch of golden hair extended to his crotch. He licked his lips and turned toward Louis, ‘It’d be a real score, but what if MOSLA chickens out or, worse, gets pissed off?- you know what they think about guys like us.’ He shivered, considering the dangerous game he and Louis played, freelancing in a business locked up by the ruthless and very powerful slavery cartel. Louis lit up a smoke and blew a slow, perfect ring into the air. ‘Take a long look, bro… Now, you tell me what MOSLA’s gonna say.’ Garret did as he was told, eyes roaming from one strapping Midwestern buck to another, and cracked a smile as slow and perfect as his partner’s smoke ring. ‘You know, Louis, I do believe we got ourselves a farkin gold mine here, yes indeed!’

The set up was tricky, but the two traders were experienced. Louis transmogrified from a well dressed thug to a smiling businessman and sauntered over to the team’s table, joined a few minutes later by his sidekick oozing comradely charm. The pose was tried and true, if a bit hard to believe by anyone other than a men’s softball team from Missouri; two of the big city locals struck by an unaccustomed bout of friendly concern for a pack of tourists and, since they both had the rest of the day off, well, why not show the out of town boys some of the famous sights? Chaz Rollings seemed just a bit nervous but, for once, was over ruled by the exuberant gang eager for a free ride and used to fast friendship. An hour later the whole crew was piled into the back of a shiny new Dodge van bouncing over one of the city bridges and, if any had known it, bidding farewell to Manhattan and life as they knew it forever. None of the young studs swigging beer and carrying on in the back of the van would ever see their hotel rooms or, as a matter of fact, the dreary familiarity of Raytown again.

The first indication that something might be wrong came with the view outside the subtly smoked windows of the van. Fuck me; this neighborhood looks a long way from the Statue of Liberty … Chaz pulled back from the buzzing conversation, chewing his lower lip, handsome face furrowed in thoughtful concentration, and wiped a thin sheen of perspiration from his suddenly slick forehead. He wasn’t exactly scared, there were a lot more of the Raytown boys than the two guys driving the van…and, well…he shrugged…probably nothing going on . Maybe. ‘Hey,’ he tried to sound authoritative, leaning toward the driver of the van, ‘What’s up guys? Neighborhood here looks kind of rough…’ And it was true; jostling over potholes somewhere, now, in Queens, the Raytown rubes had a stunning view of the rusty miasma of the Long Island Railroad yards passing on the left as they headed deeper into a seedy district of rundown or abandoned warehouses. Chaz’s tone of voice seemed to lower the temperature in the back of the van and the rowdy group fell suddenly silent, not scared yet but ready to get angry, collective muscles tensed, if not for flight, well, just maybe for a fight. Garret leaned over from the front passenger seat, suave smile left somewhere back in Manhattan. ‘What’s the matter, boys? Landscape look a little too much like Raytown?’ What would have been a joke ten minutes before now hung in the air like a callous insult. Chaz started to say something but was cut off by the unexpected sight of a colt revolver pointed straight at his face. ‘Quiet, dude…don’t say a word, or I might just have to make a mess back there for your buddies to clean up.’ The van nosed down a side street and pulled to a stop in a deserted area in front of a shuttered brick warehouse. Rick Martin, voice pitched low and steely calm, asked the question in everyone’s mind- ‘Shit man, you want our money? If you was gonna rob us you could have done it just as easy back in Manhattan.’ Garret finally cracked his familiar smile, ‘Too true, Einstein, but see…’ he was nudged in the ribs by his partner; no sense in riling the boys up unnecessarily, at least not yet. Several other gun toting thugs appeared from inside the warehouse. One levered open the side door, pointing his illegal AK47 at the stunned passengers in the back of the van, and ordered the Raytown men’s softball team onto the pavement.


Garret glanced at Louis and got the expected affirmative by way of a subtle nod. Picking up where he had left off with Rick Martin, he addressed the whole team, now thoroughly scared but trying not to show it. Even so, his remarks were enigmatic and fell on uncomprehending ears, ‘It’s not your money we’re after, guys…’ That should have come as something of a relief, but was followed by a command that left the team of young studs in shocked dismay, shuffling uncertainly in their tennis shoes and desert boots. Garret’s command was simple enough- ‘OK, boys, see, we want you all stripped down buck naked in two minutes flat- move it!!’ Chaz stepped forward, cast a surreptitious glance down the deserted street hoping for some help and noted armed thugs at the corners instead, and tried to reason with the team’s captors. He was cut off in mid-sentence as the butt of a rifle connected with his lower gut, the last syllables of his meaningless remark transformed into a painful whoosh of air pistoned from bruised lungs. He felt hot tears stinging behind his blue eyes and winced as a bullet flew over Bobby Cosgrove’s shoulder raising a puff of dust in the crumbling brick wall of the warehouse. Setting an example as always, he grasped the hem of his tee with trembling hands and pulled it over his head, revealing a broad, pale chest crowned by rosy nipples and dusted with a light pelt of gold fur. The rest of the team followed their leader’s example and began to reluctantly shed their clothing, wondering at the strange sensations of humiliation at being forced to strip in the open air and- more to the point- doing so under the curious and intense scrutiny of their mysterious captors. The experience seemed surreal as Chaz reached for the steel buttons of his levis, fumbling them open and spreading his fly, reflecting that he had seen these guys strip down a thousand times and that was no big deal…but this was different, and he was somehow embarrassed without really understanding why. He caught Rick Martin staring with frightened intensity at his exposed briefs and, more disconcerting, watched as his buddy’s eyes caught his own and quickly shifted away.


Bobby freaked out and tried to run. ‘Don’t shoot, he’s worth more than your fucking mortgage!!!’ Louis was obviously concerned but not overly so and this was borne out as Bobby was quickly brought down under a rain of blackjacks conveniently wielded by the well prepared slavers. ‘Bring him over here,’ Louis wasn’t all that concerned by the breach of protocol; he actually appeared pleased in an odd way, though that didn’t seem to make much sense. The team paused briefly in various degrees of nudity, sensing that something horrific was about to happen. They weren’t disappointed. Bobby was pushed around a little, gibbering some nonsense in mixed pain and fear, and his trousers were then sliced off with an expertly wielded switch blade leaving him standing, in trembling expectation, naked except for his tennis shoes and white athletic socks. ‘This one’s a beauty.’ It was some nameless stranger commenting on the physique of a guy Chaz had known since the age of ten…as had most of the other guys on the team, shocked into immobility as they fell collectively deeper into the nightmare, waiting to see what would happen to Bobby Cosgrove. Rick Martin stood a couple of feet away from the unfolding drama, jeans hiked around his ankles, big dick and balls flopping in the breeze since he wore no underwear, frozen with fear, head averted from the pathetic sight of Bobby and whatever was about to happen. Louis sauntered over and pulled a pistol from the inside of his jacket. He ran a hand smoothly down the naked contours of Bobby’s muscular back, flinching under the unaccustomed touch just like the skittish thoroughbred that he was. ‘Bend over.’ The command was matter of fact and Bobby was helped into position by a hand placed firmly behind his warm neck, bent ninety degrees at the waist, terrified eyes inches away from the musky dick and balls of his buddy Rick Martin. Rick tried to back up but was warned into immobility by the gyrating pistol. ‘Not so fast, stud!’ Louis was in his element, a demonic grin plastered across his face. The wild buck settled down, shaking with rage, and the pistol swung away from his face, instead caressing the back of Bobby’s head.

‘What you think boy? Like the view?’ The other thugs got a huge laugh out of that, eager to see what was next on Louis’ creative agenda. The boss was clearly on a roll. ‘I reckon you Raytown boys must hanker after hot dogs now and then…or, maybe, you’re partial to some potaters on the side.’ He glanced over the broad naked back of Bobby Cosgrove and nodded toward Rick Martin. ‘Hoist up your hot dog, Ricky, and give your bro a decent view of what you got swinging between those fine thighs.’ The tall stud grimaced, shaking his head of shaggy brown hair, and reluctantly obeyed; grabbing his cock like he’d never done it before and lifting it high so Bobby could get a good look at his dangling testicles. But a ‘good look’ wasn’t exactly what Louis had in mind. Flicking Rick’s big balls with a fastidious forefinger, he grimaced. ‘Fuck, dude, when’s the last time you had a shower?’ Rick took it in silence, conscious of the gun pointed at the back of his friend’s head, trying to stifle the gathering storm of hot rage. Louis chuckled and raked the cold barrel of the pistol along the track of Bobby’s arched spine. ‘Do your buddy a favor, man…lick em clean.’ Bobby just hung his head in stunned silence, staring at the asphalt shining dully between his spread feet, panting like a winded dog. Louis took a leisurely look and felt inspired, ‘Ever here the old joke about why a dog licks his balls?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Because he can, man!! Well, you got a rare opportunity, probably been dreaming about it for ages now (more raucous laughter), so work yourself up a good slobber and give Mr. Martin’s hairy balls a nice, wet scrub- NOW!’ Though he was terrified, Bobby stalled, paralyzed by a potent mix of shame, fear and revulsion. He noticed a tear splash the ground and wondered crazily if it was beginning to rain. His back ached from being bent over, slabs of hard muscle twitching with tension and the odd ticklish weight of the pistol tracing lower, over the ridge of his jutting ass, along the lightly gaping crack…where it paused. Louis shook his head in mock dismay. ‘You know, Bobby, I’m not gonna let you waste this golden opportunity. But I’m thinking that maybe you deserve some extra motivation and, well, since you’re gonna lick your buddy’s balls like a man’s best friend…yeah, well, maybe you’d like to get fucked doggy style while you was at it.’ With a fast jerk he nudged the barrel of the pistol past the short hairs ringing the firm gates of Bobby Cosgrove’s ass, paused briefly at the winking portal…and shoved, burying the shiny nose of the pistol deep in Bobby’s quivering depths up to his trigger finger. Bobby let out a heart rending scream of pure, scandalized anguish, causing Rick to flinch, clenching ham-like fists at his side. He was racing toward the breaking point, forestalled, however, by the wily Louis. ‘Tie the man’s hands behind his back, Jamie- that’s good,’ and motioning to one of the others, added, ‘now, get down on your knees boys and spread his legs nice and wide.’ Rick’s rage boiled unabated, but the time for action fled away as he stood in the humid New York sunshine, bound and half spread eagled, waiting for Bobby to come around.

The snick of the pistol’s silver hammer held in delicate tension by Louis’ slick thumb did the trick. Stroking the long seam along the back of the terrified Raytown boy’s scrotum with his other hand, the dapper thug made things perfectly clear, ‘You know, Bobby…this kind of humidity raises a fast sweat here in the Big Apple and, yeah, my thumb’s feeling mighty slippery. Shit, just imagine the mess it would make if it was to slip off this trigger hammer!’ Bobby groaned and leaned forward, nosing into the looming landscape of Rick Martin’s exposed groin. Sobbing, he extended his tongue and laid a tentative lick on the left nut dangling a half inch from his face. The ripe smell of clean sweat and man-musk filled his nostrils as Louis twisted the barrel of the gun buried in his ass and muttered something encouraging. Bobby gagged and ran a sand papery trail up Rick’s ticklish ball sack and, for reasons unknown, circled the thick root of the other man’s penis, tasting the odd sensation of wiry hair in his open mouth, half way up the shaft to the white knuckle of his team mate holding his hot dog aloft. Bobby shuddered and repeated the process…


Louis turned from his slurping victim and perused the gaggle of slack jawed Missouri boys, frozen in sexy tableaux of half-stripped splendor. ‘Get a move on it, boys! We got some business to transpire and the day isn’t getting any younger!’ Chaz blushed and lowered his trousers, shucking them off on the gathering pile of warm clothing littering the street, hesitating for a moment as he stood in the invasive breeze stripped down to his briefs. The others followed suit and Chaz watched, sickeningly mesmerized, as Jim Roare stood naked in his tall, dark haired glory and had his hands roped behind his back. Chaz’s shorts joined the pile and, finally, all of the Raytown boys stood shaking, stark naked in the waning sunlight. Meanwhile, Bobby had let out another screech as the pistol was withdrawn from his tight ass, but must have been at least a little bit relieved when he was allowed to stand up straight again…after peeling off his socks and tennis shoes. The men’s soft ball team of Raytown, Missouri stood stripped to a man and were lined up, subdued with terror and honest confusion against a brick wall. Each was securely bound and then the whole lot was marched stark naked into the depths of the crumbling warehouse.


Four Hours Later

The ramshackle building in the dead zone of Queens was a labyrinth of shadowy storerooms lately converted by the rogue traders into makeshift offices, examination cubicles, and cells. Chaz sat naked, shivering on the concrete floor of a 12 x 12 foot room listening to one of the guys down the corridor sobbing and yelling for his wife over and over again. He still didn’t know what Louis and Garret and the rest of the assholes that had abducted the team wanted- surely it must be some kind of ransom, but why take the guys’ clothes away or humiliate Bobby and Rick like that? Who’s making that racket…big, macho Corey Hoffman?? The guy kept calling out for his family; the refrain like some kind of hopeless plea for mercy and Chaz felt the bile of anger rise fresh in his throat. Can’t stand this anymore…ah, fuck it all! He leapt to his feet and stumbled to the narrow barred window set in the door of the cell. Ramming a muscular shoulder against the wood he added an outraged, baritone shout to the gathering mayhem, laced with threats, obscenities and encouragement to his friends from Raytown who surely could hear him. Everything would be ok, just hold on guys …but a burly thug sauntered by and told him to shut the fuck up or face some unspecified consequences. Chaz ignored him and doubled the volume of his outburst. Ten minutes later the threshold of his cell was darkened by Garret and two companions; one of them pointing a now familiar gun at the center of Chaz’s hairy chest. ‘I won’t bother to tell you to shut your damn mouth, boy, because you’ve already been told and, besides, as we all know very well, talk is cheap.’ Garret smiled wryly and motioned to his companions who rushed the blond stud in a blitzkrieg of fists and three foot long, hard, shiny wood clubs. Chaz saw stars as one of the clubs tapped him at the base of his neck, sending a jolt of pain like wild electricity down the length of his spine even as a fist connected with the taut muscle of his lower belly, doubling him over, breathless, in time for another against his handsome jaw that sent the captain of the Raytown men’s soft ball team staggering to his knees on the concrete floor. He tried to get up, fists balled instinctively for a fight that he lusted after, knowing all along that it was futile- odds out of control- and a booted foot connected with his balls, sending the hamburger, eaten hours before in another lifetime over in Manhattan, straight onto the filthy floor, suddenly wracked by a blinding nausea more intense than he thought was possible. Chaz gasped, humbled unreasonably, freshly conscious of his nudity as he huddled, wracked by pain, in a corner of his cell. One of the thugs, just warming up and thoroughly in love with his job, hauled the panting buck to his feet and delivered a telling blow to his left kidney, followed by another three inches above his navel, filling the cramped cell with wordless sounds of thudding fists and hard wood against the muscular flesh of the Raytown boy. Chaz thought he might pass out and wished that he could, but instead took another hit punctuated by a deep whimper of surprised despair. He tasted the bitter iron of blood trickling down the back of his throat, staggering dizzily, bouncing like a rag doll against the far wall…all the while trying to aim his useless fists at the blurred targets pummeling his young body from multiple directions.

‘Good enough for now, boys.’ Garret called off his human dogs and stared down at the young athlete, lying panting on his side. ‘Tell you what, Chaz… A guy with attitude like yours…well, that isn’t really a bad thing, no, not at all, though I have to add that, ah, what you might call ‘leadership capability’ has no place at all in MOSLA’s scheme of things…’ Chaz listened intently without any real comprehension. ‘But this isn’t MOSLA, not yet at least, and here we got no patience at all with the kind of trouble making shit that captains of the team can get up to. Yep. Cooperation is the name of the game- you ready to cooperate, Chaz?’ The beaten stud nodded, almost imperceptibly, but his intent was taken for granted. ‘That’s real good,’ Garret was suddenly all business, ‘Boys, help our young slave (SLAVE???!!! ) to his feet.’ Chaz was levered to a standing position by two pairs of hands roughly inserted beneath his slick armpits and stood, swaying, on rubbery legs. One of the thugs grabbed his balls and led him shuffling out the door of the cell, where the group paused for a minute or two before a grime encrusted sink so Chaz could clean himself up, before continuing down the harshly lit corridor. The sound of his beating had stilled the noises emanating from the other cells and Chaz watched and numbered the faces of his companions, burning them into his memory, pressed against the barred windows of the row of locked doors, brought to the brink of despair as their captain went first to his unknown fate. Garret and Louis, of course, had planned it that way; savvy to the potency of humiliation as the naked young jock was paraded before his companions. For his part, Chaz’s sky blue eyes burned with an unaccustomed type of tears, missing the guys already, intuiting that he probably wouldn’t see any of them again, but most of all weighted by a deep sense of failure, as if the catastrophe was somehow all his fault and it was that, more than the beating, that kept him moving without resistance, plodding with heavy steps amid the shards of his shattered spirit.


The group turned a corner, like a hundred others in the rambling warehouse, but weighted nevertheless with dark significance as Chaz lost site of his companions’ faces and, for the first time, felt utterly alone. The overhead bulbs cast a harsh light on the hard planes of his muscular young body, catching the blond hair of head, chest, groin, legs, and forearms with the glinting promise of spun gold. He was finally led before a small table where some minion tricked out like a bank clerk scribbled on a clip board, looked up, and licked his lips. The mundane questions they asked him were all the more terrifying for that, as if he were part of some macabre induction physical and, if he had known, in a way that was exactly what was happening. Garret and the pair of guards put on looks of studied boredom but no one was fooled as multiple pairs of eyes roamed the handsome jock’s nude body, standing in agonized vulnerability under the glare of the overheads. ‘Age?’ ‘Twenty three last August.’ ‘Height?’ ‘Six one,’ he mumbled. ‘Up on the scales so we can get your weight…’ He dutifully complied, then stood stock still as one of the assholes who had beaten him in his cell roamed the hard contours of his body with a tape measure, breaking the heavy silence with a stream of numbers- ‘Waist- 32, chest- 43, biceps- 18…penis- 5 ½ (flaccid)…’ and so it went. Chaz was then bent over with one of the goon’s clubs pressed against his shoulder blades and submitted as his asshole was lightly probed- hey, just like at the doctor’s…well, try to believe it! ‘Stand up, boy.’ He did as he was told, blushing like a fucking school girl, and averted his head, choking on resurgent rage as Garret’s hand lightly brushed the hair on his broad chest then tweaked the reddish blond bush at his groin. ‘Looks like this one’s the real thing, guys! Well, he’s about to find out the hard way that blonds definitely don’t have more fun…least not here!’ That got a laugh out of the sullen group, except for the shamed young jock who, despite lessons recently learned, balled his fists before summoning the last reserves of battered will power, preventing himself from lashing out.

His self control frayed further when they asked about his sexual orientation, making faces and subtly obscene gestures of disbelief when he told them in a matter of fact way that he was straight. ‘Got to see if your equipment is in working order,’ Garret smirked, ‘jack off, please, and don’t worry about the mess- we got people to take care of that sort of thing.’ Caught by surprise, the big stud lost his nerve, blushed again and mumbled, ‘I can’t…’ But that wasn’t really true and Chaz would amaze himself on numerous future occasions contemplating the wide, nightmarish perimeters of what was actually possible. The soft slap of a calloused hand on the smooth shaft of his rock hard cock filled the room after the initial embarrassment- nearly ten endless minutes in duration- when it looked like Chaz Rollings’ equipment might not, indeed, be in top working order. It was though, and (if the truth be told) he was an old fashioned kind of guy, preferring his girlfriend back in Raytown to his right hand any old day and, so, the young stud hadn’t seen much release since coming to the Big Apple. He concentrated on a far away place and, like magic, his dick shrugged off the strangeness and rose to the occasion, gathering steam for a few minutes more…slap, slap, slap…until, finally, he was able to deliver the expected load in a steaming puddle on the grease stained floor. Chaz Rollings was not a particularly violent kind of guy, but he was a man after all, and there was nothing he wanted more, as he watched the cum fly from the head of his bobbing cock, than to kill Louis, Garret and the whole lot of bastards in this hellish place that the Raytown boys had stumbled into.

There would be time later for resistance; Chaz reckoned that was true as sure as he knew anything at all, but what he didn’t know was that Louis, Garret and, more to the point, the MOSLA people, knew it too…and they approved of that sort of thing, at least in the short run. It made things interesting and, OK might as well admit it; some healthy attitude added spice to the rigorous training sessions soon to come. That, though, was all in the future for Chaz Rollings as his makeshift physical ended and he walked, alone and naked, down an endless corridor to another cell, a little more spacious and well appointed than the first, with a sink and filthy mattress tossed on the floor. He would spend the next few days there, wondering about his buddies and what kind of treatment they might receive, but he suspected- and the thought made him cry, alone in his cell at night- that he wouldn’t ever find out because the guys he played ball with and, as often as not, had been a part of his life since boyhood, were now lost to an irretrievable past; he would never see them again, and, though it didn’t necessarily have to work out that way, Chaz’s intuition was correct. MOSLA was a big operation and culls from the populous east coast were numerous, requiring more than one processing and training center; Chaz Rollings never did see his friends from Raytown again.

Nine Weeks Later

Jim Roare didn’t know it, but he was the last of the lot. It had taken a while, but the whole men’s softball team of Raytown, Missouri, had been swallowed alive by the ravenous MOSLA consortium…except for Jim who still remained in the hands of the rogue traders. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with Jim to make him unfit or undesirable on the trading room floor, it was just the luck of the draw and, well, there was one thing. All of the guys on the team were uncommonly fit and good looking by anyone’s standard, Chaz Rollings being a prime example with his boyish face, broad shoulders and wheat-colored hair…but Jim Roare was something special. Where Chaz was fair, Jim was dark; thick head of short black hair over a movie star face of chiseled perfection, black eyebrows and five o’clock stubble giving him an aura of indefinable danger and imminent adventure. Well, he had both in spades now. His six foot frame- all smooth muscle and perfect proportion- showed the signs of chronic anxiety; flexed with tension and coated with a light sheen of sweat as he paced his narrow cell, wondering where he was, what had happened to his team mates and, most important, what they were ultimately going to do to him. Jim had watched, as had the other guys, as Chaz Rollings was marched naked down the long corridor to disappear around a corner…and hadn’t been seen since. That was bad but, Jim reflected, he hadn’t seen any of his buddies since a couple of days after the abduction and wondered if they were still alive and, if so, what kind of horrors they faced. Actually, though, Jim’s lot hadn’t been as bad as his imagination suggested it might have been. The guards had pretty much left him alone, sparing him the savage beating that had Chaz thumping in bloody groans against the wall of his cell that first awful night of captivity. He had, of course, endured the same bizarre sort of physical exam and swallowed the bitter pill of humiliation as best he could…all the while wondering why these things were being done to him, and what guys like Louis and Garret really wanted with the Raytown men’s softball team.


Jim Roare had no idea at all where he was. Three days after the initial abduction he had been hustled from his cell at the abandoned warehouse in Queens, cuffed, blindfolded, and levered into the back of a purring van, which, though he was unaware, actually crept back toward Manhattan to a strip of land in the East River called Roosevelt Island. The loose organization of rogue traders had ploughed some profit into a long term lease of property there that included the shell of a long abandoned mental hospital- empty and secluded since at least the turn of the last century. Beneath the gutted main floors were a warren of cellars and passageways, cleverly renovated now to serve as the main offices and clearing house for the independent dealers in prime masculine flesh. Jim was literally buried alive; pacing his cell as the days turned into weeks, lithe body stripped to nothing but a faded pair of levis given to him by his captors- no shirt, shoes, socks, underwear, or even a belt- until one day he was unceremoniously rousted from his cell at gun point, fitted with heavy manacles dangling twin lengths of chain and marched to a larger cubicle of dirty sky-lit tile. ‘Face the wall, boy!’ Nine weeks had done wonders for the strapping young stud’s deportment and Jim wordlessly obeyed. His broad, smooth back rippled with tense muscle as he pressed his long fingered hands against the tile, conscious of the loose trousers resting precariously on the shelf of his ass.


The sagging jeans turned out to be a moot point as unseen hands reached around his waist and, unfastening the steel buttons of the fly, jerked the faded denim around his ankles. Jim flinched as he was prodded like horse flesh or a show dog; rough hands testing warm muscle of back and thighs, casually spreading his ass cheeks wide… ‘This one’s worth a bundle! Too bad he’s the last one (Jim’s heart skipped a beat), but there’s plenty more out there- once the damn heat blows over.’ The disembodied voice seemed oddly truculent but satisfied at the same time. ‘Can you believe what Louis and Garret did? Damn, a whole fucking soft ball team visiting the Big ‘A’ from some shithole out in the Midwest!!! Papers have been having a field day with this one and my TV’s got the slobbering face of a distraught wife or girlfriend plastered all over the screen just about all hours of the day. Fuck me! Time to cool down, I say.’ The speaker thrust a finger up Jim’s clenched asshole, wiggling around a little and laughed when the tall buck cut loose with a low groan. ‘Tight as I drum, boy- you must be a virgin.’ His partner laughed, and the loquacious examiner continued, ‘Tempting to remedy that situation right here and now, but MOSLA’s due any minute and they swear that most buyers like to break in the product themselves.’ Jim tried to blank it all out, thinking about his friends and the momentous information imparted by his slack mouthed captor…Chaz, Jack, Rick, Bobby…what happened to you guys??


The naked buck stood in the middle of the odd room, conveniently positioned under a skylight. The sterile interior of dirty yellow tile, devoid of any furniture, augmented the sight; over six feet of powerful male muscle, cut, chiseled and stripped for display, twisting against the chain that had his powerful arms hoisted high overhead, glistening with a mixture of nervous sweat and the light rub down of oil provided by his dealers. He waited in a mounting tempest of raw anxiety, vaguely aware that a watershed had been reached, brutally reminded of his status by the emptiness of the room; a piece of meat and, yeah, Jim finally understood- up for sale. The young trader sauntered into the room, jack booted feet echoing obscenely on the tile, followed by a pudgy middle aged man dressed in button down shirt and tie. The pair marched up to the bound stud, pausing to stare appraisingly, as Jim averted his own gaze, trying not to betray his deep sense of shame. Stats were read and a few questions asked, which he refused to answer, ‘Fuck you,’ mumbled with grainy defiance being the best the confused prisoner could muster. It didn’t seem to matter much and, to Jim’s surprise, there were no disciplinary consequences. The pudgy man simply nodded and seemed, somehow, to be pleased. His muscles were probed for the hundredth time, remarked on favorably- with enthusiasm by the trader and grudgingly by the MOSLA agent- broad panting chest roughly stroked, his bull-like neck, deep sweaty pits, biceps squeezed appreciatively…dipping down over the rippling landscape of abdominals to the thick bush of black hair bristling at the captive’s exposed groin. ‘Check out the cock and balls on this buck!’ The trader was supremely confident. The MOSLA man didn’t have to be asked twice, hefting Jim’s scandalized manhood in his palm, rolling the huge balls between thumb and forefinger then lightly stroking the thick shaft of his dick. ‘Very nice,’ he sighed, lingering a while before reluctantly dropping the slave’s package to swing lazily between his quivering legs. He stepped back and scratched his head then opened a small note book and scribbled something cryptic. Jim wanted to die, but not before personally ushering the smug trader and fat MOSLA agent to the place reserved for them in hell. It was an unfortunate thought since Jim was the one in hell and sliding ever deeper. The MOSLA agent inadvertently decided to ram the point (quite literally) home. ‘Ever tested his threshold of pain?’ The trader looked genuinely perplexed and went noticeably pale as the agent smiled for the first time. ‘Do you mind?’ The trader nodded wordlessly, as the fat man rummaged in a pocket and produced an innocuous looking eight inch metal rod attached to a green plastic handle equipped with a trigger.


Ah, shit no!! Please, this can’t be happening to me… Jim backed up against the chains holding his arms aloft, instantly aware of what was about to happen, as he recognized the mini-version of a good old fashioned cattle prod. ‘Very nice,’ the MOSLA agent winked sagely at the fascinated young trader- ‘See? He begins the dance. What do you say we pick up the tempo…just a bit?’ Adjusting a tiny knob he ran the steel tip along the horrified buck’s arched rib cage. Jim flinched as a stinging thread of invisible fire seared his left flank. ‘No sound effects yet? What’s a dance without music to accompany?’ He twisted the knob and reapplied the rod to the inside of Jim’s navel, eliciting a surprised cry of shocked pain, even as the twisting tempo of frantic shuffling feet increased. ‘Ah, that’s better!’ ‘Please, stop…’ Panted as the victim waited for the next onslaught, ‘You don’t have to do this...please, man!!’ The fat man seemed not to hear, engrossed instead in the possibilities of the tiny knob, which he twisted again, brushing the tip this time against the smooth head of Jim’s bobbing penis. ‘ARRRRAAHH!!!!!!!!!!!’ The guttural shriek ricocheted around the hard contours of the makeshift showroom as sweat flew from the wildly gyrating body of the strapping Raytown boy. ‘Damn!!’ the MOSLA agent seemed visibly impressed. ‘Six out of ten. A lot of guys can’t take that much- hey, let’s shoot for the moon and go for eight, shall we?’ Though the question was clearly rhetorical, the trader seemed suddenly nervous and interrupted with a reply, ‘You kill him, mister, and I swear MOSLA will pay the full price- even if it’s for dead meat!’ The agent narrowed his pig-like eyes with disapproval, but didn’t seem all that concerned. He twisted the knob, paused for a moment watching his handsome victim carefully- thick throat convulsing in terror, sweat running now in fast rivulets over the planes and through the ravines of corded muscle, deep brown eyes still daring to implore…and threaten?? The MOSLA representative fervently hoped so. Jim Roare never forgot the experience that followed and gained a new appreciation of that funny word ‘threshold’ in the process…as he crossed his own. ‘SHIT…oh, shit!!!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO…’ The tip thrust suddenly beneath his flopping balls transfigured the prisoner’s denial into wordless affirmation of animal intensity as a scalding holocaust of white hot fire mushroomed in his groin and travelled on the wings of a hurricane straight up his solar plexus and down his kicking legs, engulfing the thrashing buck in an agony beyond imagining. His shriek found its way out of the closed chamber, down several corridors, and caused more than one clerk to look up from their paper work with perplexed fear. But there was only the single outburst…followed by silence; the new slave had found his threshold and hung unconscious, dangling in the taut chains, delivered to the merciful arms of oblivion to rest for a little while.

‘We’ll take him.’ The MOSLA agent was eager to close the deal. After some initial consternation (thinking at first that the big stud was dead), the scruffy trader regained his own composure and now sported a wide grin of genuine satisfaction- Jim Roare had fetched a farking fortune! The last of the Raytown boys was packed up and loaded into the waiting transport supplied by the Consortium, destination unknown, but that’s the way it had always been. The rogue trader wiped his suddenly clammy brow as the MOSLA people drove away with their living cargo- the job was interesting, even fulfilling, he got his rocks off, and the pay was great…but, damn, those MOSLA guys made his blood run cold.

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