The Telemachus Story Archive

Modern Slavery
Chapter 6 - By appointment only
By Amalaric (Illustrated by Amalaric)
Email: Amalaric

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The sound of the key grating in the locked door of his cell sent a shiver of angry resentment mixed with more than a little fear coursing through the buck’s long body. After slightly more than eight months, he knew the MOSLA routine, though of course there were always certain variations…and those were never pleasant. He had no idea what time it was but was certain, nevertheless, that the rest period wasn’t entirely spent; had, in fact, barely begun, so what the fuck was going on?? The two MOSLA escorts, armed conveniently with wicked looking tasers, ordered him up and the stud reluctantly obeyed, lumbering off the thin mattress and onto his bare feet. Even after all the time spent at the facility, he was still self-conscious, stripped down to nothing but requisite white cotton briefs; the young slave crossed muscular arms over the broad expanse of his naked chest, scowling in order to mask his anxiety. One of the escorts nodded in the general direction of his bulging crotch, ‘Drop the shorts, boy, then turn around and face the wall.’ He amazed himself by again doing as he was told- months of rigorous training bore some bitter fruit- kicking the threadbare briefs into a corner of the cell before turning toward the wall. As expected, his hands were cuffed behind his back, clenched fists resting helpless on the high rise of his tight ass. Directed by a hand laid, almost gently, on his broad shoulder, the slave was guided out of the shadowy cell into a brightly lit corridor…


‘Gentlemen, welcome!’ The smooth greeting was obviously canned but nevertheless appreciated as the select group of wealthy and well known clients eagerly entered the atmospheric room. The setting was a blatant conceit, but worked for that very reason; rough walls of peeling plaster and the overhead glare of a naked bulb in a room stripped of all furnishings except for a sturdy wood post anchored by brackets to the floor. The temperature, carefully controlled by a hidden thermostat, was also unusually warm, though not uncomfortably so, causing the gathering crowd of eager customers to shed their jackets and loosen expensive ties. The MOSLA compound that hosted the exclusive event was anything but primitive, secluded but vast in its scope and comforts offered, at least to invited guests who were known and possessed bank accounts of requisite importance. The eight men selected- they would never have set foot in the MOSLA enclosure unless summoned- exhibited an eagerness akin to boys, up early and bright eyed on Christmas morning, as they entered the drab, medium sized room. The object of their anticipation stood helpless against the post. That, in itself, was something of an irony since the young buck exuded an aura of massive (if harnessed) power, standing immobilized against the sturdy wood but, nevertheless, dominating the sultry space. In another life, still vividly remembered since he had only been in the custody of MOSLA for eight months, the stud had been a typical college jock, excelling in the rough sports of football and wrestling yet still managing to maintain at least a passable GPA. He had his plans, which were more like half-formed dreams, but wasn’t overly concerned about much at all…until the day he was taken by MOSLA. The painful scenario still burned in scandalized memory, but to the intrepid company scout it had all seemed predictable, if not inevitable, as he checked the various watering holes along the tourist trails of Central America marveling at the rich diversity of ‘wild life’ practically begging for the expert attentions of an alerted snare. The big jock had been signaled out and assessed while on holiday with several of his buddies and their girlfriends, scampering over some crumbling Mayan ruins, flattering themselves with the half-truth that their adventure had taken them far from the prosaic and over-traveled haunts of tourists their parents’ age. Trouble was, though they had stumbled on a road less traveled, well, it wasn’t quite as empty or unknown as their imaginations suggested…but that can, perhaps, be excused, since what awaited one of them went far beyond careless imagination to the dark substance of a realized nightmare. The dumb jock was taken quickly, quietly, skillfully…and, disappearing without a trace, left nothing behind but an abandoned back pack and the tearful incomprehension of his fortunate friends.

What he, and others in a variously frightened, defiant, perplexed and otherwise stunned crowd of handsome captives, endured in the eight months prior to his appointment with the wood post under the stark light of the MOSLA showroom is the stuff of future chronicles yet to be written. Suffice to say, for now, that his training was rigorous and carefully planned- not in order to break the young man’s spirit (bad for business), but to acquaint him with a ‘brave new world’ and his fixed and certain place within it. He shuffled nervously as the door swung open, having been left to stand alone for the better part of an hour, fully aware of what was about to transpire and contemplating the possibilities with a mixture of amazed emotion nearly impossible to describe.


‘Gentlemen,’ the sales agent was all unctuous proficiency, ‘we have selected a specimen of the highest quality for your perusal this afternoon; I assure you, this young male has been thoroughly evaluated and judged to be flawless.’ He opened an expensively leather bound notebook and scanned the statistics provided by the appropriate office. ‘The product is named John (surnames ceased to exist for the inmates of the MOSLA facilities), twenty two years old, six feet one and a half inches tall, and he weighs in at two hundred and fifteen pounds- all trim proportion, as you can see, of hard muscle honed by years of sport in his previous life and closely supervised manual labor and physical exercise here at the MOSLA facility.’ The guests nodded appreciatively as the salesman paused for breath. ‘Detailed descriptions and measurements are available in the dossiers delivered to your rooms. John hails from the United States, of mixed Caucasian extraction, has tested heterosexual (and, by the way, sperm analysis has proven him fertile), and would make an excellent addition to any of your collections in a number of capacities- highly suited to hard manual labor, as a possible breeder and/or object of sexual sport (the young slave shuddered almost imperceptibly), lighter work of course, or simply as a magnificent showcase addition to the discerning connoisseur’s stable; suitable for any number of uses. Gentlemen, where John is concerned, your creative imaginations represent the only limit he will ever know!’ An exuberant Arab burst into applause but was soon quieted by the expectant silence of the others in the room. John twisted against the restraining pole; a silent cry of protest bubbling in his whirring mind, despite his arduous training and recent experience, unable to believe that such a thing could really be happening. The stares of the gathered clients made him painfully conscious of many things, chief among them, his nudity- stripped of all clothing; nothing- no briefs much less shirt and trousers- on his tall, muscular body to obscure the view of curious customers. The humiliation was augmented by his helplessness as he stood sweating in the unnatural heat against the pole, strong arms bound doubly- hands shackled together behind his back with an added chain looped around the hard wooden stake that held him firmly in place, feet splayed wide and likewise anchored by cuffed ankles to eye bolts in the floor.

The small crowd of potential buyers gathered closer, in a loose semi-circle, perusing the tall stud who, deeply shamed by the scrutiny and its implications, averted his crew cut head, eyes focused on some indefinable spot on the floor. John’s anxiety was evident as his deep chest heaved with fast breaths, pulse visibly pounding at the base of his throat and the smooth muscled expanse of his upper groin just above the thick patch of bronze pubic hair. He flinched as the unctuous dealer laid a cold hand on his shoulder. ‘This exquisite commodity is fresh, gentlemen, and in his prime and that means more value as you can be certain that his…ah…charms will last for many years.’ He lightly stroked the hard round curve of the captive shoulder, moving suggestively over a swelling bicep and continued, ‘Observe the delightful symmetry of the masculine landscape,’ emphasizing his point by tracing a forefinger over the buck’s massive pecs from nipple to nipple before zigzagging over the corrugated perfection of rock hard abs then, dipping lower, flicking the thick shaft of John’s penis swinging helplessly between slightly spread thighs. The salesman smiled in a deprecating way and shrugged as if somehow suddenly aware of a minor faux pas. ‘Excuse me, my friends! As you can see…well, my professional interest goes beyond that of the corporation- eager to transact a simple sale and, in doing so, demonstrate a product- and is, shall we say, also somewhat epicurean?’ He giggled. ‘And so, I fear I may have seemed selfish…as if you needed my roving touch to indentify this magnificent animal’s many attributes! Gentlemen, again I ask for your pardon- it is not for me to examine the slave in this manner as I will not participate in the bidding,’ he put on a mock grimace of regret and covered his mouth briefly with a manicured hand, ‘but for you! Feel free to explore the buck at your leisure,’ and he stepped back, to John’s mounting horror, as the eager patrons of MOSLA’s studied hospitality filled the gap.

The middle aged Arab, scion a few times removed from a nameless royal family, had expected and eagerly awaited the invitation. Anxious to augment his carefully chosen collection, he was one of MOSLA’s prized customers and, elbowing his way past the others, re-traced the route recently traveled by the pudgy hand of the salesman, taking time to squeeze the bulging muscles of chest, arms, belly and thighs like ripe fruit in a market stall. John’s mind swam in a dark sea of denial, reflexively twisting away from the invasive touch. The Arab scowled and roughly grasped the squirming slave’s balls, hoisting their hot weight in his palm as a low groan issued from the chained buck. ‘His potency has been tested?’ ‘Of course!’ The sale agent’s voice was slightly petulant- they had been over this before and, besides, he was anxious for the others to examine (and hopefully succumb to) the obvious attributes of the young beauty bound to the pole. ‘But has he been trained in other forms of…ah…sexual sport ?’ Now, that was a good question, rarely spoken of openly…but often alluded to by potential buyers. The dealer narrowed his eyes and put on an unfeigned expression, both thoughtful and serious. ‘Yes. Here at the MOSLA facilities we anticipate all tastes and train our men accordingly. As I mentioned before, John is heterosexual (and most prefer their bucks that way for economic [as breeders] and often personal reasons), but I assure you, sir, that all of our studs have (at least) been acquainted with a wide variety of potential use…’ He paused, rapidly considering whether it was wise to elucidate further but, judging his audience and drawing on long experience, reached a rapid conclusion and continued, ‘It is true that it hasn’t been easy for the buck and his training in that area is…’ another pregnant pause, ‘necessarily incomplete .’ It was a risky thing to say, but the MOSLA man trusted his instincts. ‘He may require further instruction and that, of course, involves careful and directed discipline…but, in our experience, such things only serve to augment the desirability of the product. You mentioned sport , sir! Well, I assure you- this one, though prepped and trained to…ah…diverse and creative expectations, will, nevertheless, provide you with a challenge!’ John listened to it all with stunned incredulity, even as the Arab toyed with the head of his cock, stroking the silky rim, lightly prying the winking slit, back to the sensitive head, diverted to a long stroke up and down the thick shaft, along the seam of his ticklish scrotum- no aspect of his once proud manhood was out of bounds. The Arab certainly seemed satisfied, scratching lazily in the stud’s thick patch of pubes, to the evident impatience of the other potential customers.

A tall, thin lipped Swede interrupted the reverie, elbowing past the mesmerized Arab and, grasping the slave’s lower jaw, raised his head from the admittedly delightful position of bowed submission. ‘Can it speak?’ His tone was peremptory but the agent hid his irritation and answered with alacrity, ‘Certainly, sir; response to commands and proper communication of basic needs represents one of the first aspects of training on arrival at the facility.’ The Swede nodded absently toward the verbose MOSLA minion, savoring, however, his grip on the lightly stubbled jaw of the perplexed young buck. ‘Tell me your name, boy.’ They already know my name!! The surreal circumstances conspired to bizarre consequences; clearly, the demand had nothing to do with information but- for reasons impossible to describe- the simple response represented an experience of deep humiliation. He irrationally considered giving his surname but, remembering MOSLA’s strict discipline, wisely thought better, ‘John…sir.’ There is a story about a nineteenth century English orator who’s voice was so rich that he only had to say the one word, ‘Mesopotamia’, and many in the audience would burst into tears. The rumbling cadence of a single syllable joined, after the slightest hesitation, to another, issued from the deep throat of the sweating buck- half whisper, half groan, somehow also an implied threat (if utterly empty) and imaginary shout. He had remembered to end with ‘sir’ and that (he hoped) would spare him an appointment with the lash, but the nearly imperceptible pause also spoke volumes- the strapping stud was a powerful specimen, in the prime of his undoubted manhood…and would require further training and, well, what was it the silly dealer had said about ‘sport’? Though none of the gathered observers burst into tears like those enchanted by the long dead English orator, the effect of John’s deep voice was much the same, as a circle of cocks hardened beyond their already excited state, tenting expensive trousers and, as the wily MOSLA agent intended, urging their owners to hurry through the examination so the bidding could begin.


Like a pack of hungry sharks excited by the smell of terrified prey, the small group of select customers closed in on the naked stud bound immobile against the pole. The Swede pried John’s mouth open, probing the soft interior with a long finger, finally cracking a smile as the buck’s gray eyes widened with shock, making him gag before moving to the dazzling symmetry of even white teeth, while a skinny American, roughly the same age as the merchandise but as rich as any man in the room from a fortune made in software, ran an appreciative stroke with eager hands over the stud’s long flank, from the swell of his mighty chest, over the arched ribs to the hard curve of his profiled ass. ‘Any chance of a rear view?’ The question wasn’t unreasonable as the slave’s position against the pole necessarily obscured parts of his magnificent body from examination. The MOSLA agent, of course, had expected the request and was prepared with a final, seemingly daring, response. Extracting a key from his jacket pocket, he held it up with a flourish before the group of curious spectators. The men were mildly surprised, and the sense of excited expectation heightened, as the normally loquacious agent kept his mouth shut and, theatrically walking behind the massive stud, unlinked the manacles binding him to the wood post. John gratefully lowered his arms, standing like a dumb animal at bay rubbing his hairy wrists. There were no guards in the room and none of the guests or, presumably, the MOSLA rep were armed and now, suddenly, the beast stood before them unchained, dangerous in his virile strength, easily able to kill any one of them with his bare hands and (might as well admit it) possessing a good reason for doing so. The young stud was twenty two years old, six feet one and a half inches tall, and weighed in at two hundred and fifteen pounds…all previously pointed out (unnecessarily) and now quite visibly apparent to everyone in the small room. The look on his handsome face was inscrutable- registering the fading shock of the recent probing, scandalized memory of the conversation held in his hearing as though he were a mindless animal bartered at the market, fear at the consequences of the day’s events, and maybe something else as well…the guests recalled the loaded sense of hesitation as the slave had obviously forced himself to say ‘sir’. John waited- was it subservience, or the coiled readiness of a large and dangerous cat- for the nexus of unexpected events to reveal a course of action and, yes, it did occur to him that now, of all times, as he almost literally stood on the block, it might be a good time to make a stand and, certainly, he wanted to kill them all, beginning with the fat MOSLA salesman who stood three feet to the side with a look that somehow made his blood run hot and then icy cold.

Of course, it was all staged. Not, it must be said, from the slave’s point of view- John was caught unprepared- nor, of course, from that of the guests, who held their collective breath in the expectant silence. The tall stud unconsciously flexed his massive muscles, wishing for a scrap of clothing to cover his dick and balls…and considering his options. He wasn’t really stupid and, though a crack athlete, had actually been enrolled (a lifetime ago) at college and made passable grades. A certain analytic capacity and vivid memories of what had transpired in the last eight months while in the not so tender custody of the slavery outfit made for some serious warfare in his already overburdened mind. He assessed his situation, feverish brain whirring like an overheated computer: Some facts- he stood naked, deep in the bowels of the MOSLA facility, but none of the men in the room had weapons. That wasn’t really known for sure, just a reasonable guess. More to the point, where was he going to go? Outside there were men with guns, lots of them…and other things as well that just might be worse than guns. He had considered suicide before, as was natural given the circumstances, and rejected the option; John was a survivor, young and tough. But there were worse things, it seemed, than death and those ‘other things’ that the MOSLA men teeming throughout the facility possessed in abundance were quite capable of making a big strong buck like himself cry like a baby, beg for mercy, promise anything…wish he were dead. Oh yes, he had already made some intimate acquaintance with a few of those kinds of toys and more than suspected that his experience to date represented the mere tip of the proverbial ice berg. The MOSLA salesman read the slave’s mind effortlessly, supremely confident of the outcome, and catching John’s gaze mirrored his thoughts back to him, amplified a hundred times.

The unctuous agent wasn’t smiling. His cold gaze raked the muscular form of the young slave’s nude body, lingering wherever it liked with an arrogance born of certain mastery. It had all been planned and eight months of rigorous training were deemed enough for this kind of sale. MOSLA had never, to this point, been proven wrong in its assessment. Moving lightly toward a nearby wall, he perused a hitherto unnoticed collection of goads hanging from leather cord and selected a riding crop. Returning to the tensed slave, he silently ran the flattened tip of the crop over the silky contours of tanned skin, tracing the deep cleft from pecs to navel before hefting John’s sweaty balls on the tiny platter- an infernal offering, or promise of the feast to come for the fascinated patrons of the company’s hospitality. With a sudden flick he brought the crop down hard against the buck’s hairy thigh. John didn’t cry out; issuing instead a ragged sigh…the war had been lost long ago. Even so, his jaw clenched with visible rage, as much at himself as the MOSLA fucks or the bastards watching and drooling with pleasure at the sight of his humiliation. ‘You will notice gentlemen, that our young animal is not, ah, completely…tame.’ He chose his words carefully, constructing an erotic metaphor of (hopefully) irresistible potency. John’s anger was, indeed, visible, supporting the agent’s claim but, at the same time, his defiance was limited to the fire banked behind blazing gray eyes. The crop slapped with an audible sting against the taut muscle of rippling abs, raising a light welt against the tan cultivated by many hours working shirtless under the sun at the facility’s ‘farm’. ‘Face the post, boy, and let these men have a look at your backside.’

John swallowed hard, ready to comply…but his gaze caught that of the humorless Swede and he saw something there that made him hesitate, just for a few crucial seconds, dreading what must come. The crop made a wedge-shaped blur in the air, landing with cracking force on the slave’s left nipple. John gasped with the sudden, nearly electric pain and wordlessly turned to face the post. The customers sighed, clearly impressed, but the MOSLA agent wasn’t quite satisfied. ‘Lean forward, raise your arms, and grasp the wood with both hands- just like you used to do with your pecker before we helped you break those nasty habits.’ He snickered knowingly toward the crowd of avid spectators. John raised smooth, corded arms high, flexing his magnificent lats and highlighting the complex ridges on his broad back, jacked slightly forward with firm ass jutting backward. The dealer grunted with pleasure and inserted the crop between clenched legs, prying them apart with nothing but a threat, revealing a view of the buck’s well-shaped testicles hanging doggy-style between quivering thighs. John winced as his balls were lightly tapped by the crop, leaning into the post, almost grateful for the cool solidity of polished wood pressed against his forehead, panting audibly as the crop traced the deep crack of his ass before running a fast track up the ticklish highway of his spine. Footsteps signaled the beginning of the onslaught and soon multiple pairs of unseen hands resumed the probing of a few minutes before, fascinated by the possibilities of new vistas to explore. He submitted with gritted teeth and felt the first of many salty tears as the cheeks of his ass were decisively pried apart and a nameless forefinger thrust into his hole, twisting hungrily before being withdrawn only to be replaced with another. The post grew slippery with sweat from his palms but John hung on tenaciously willing himself to be as impassive- blind, deaf, and dumb- as the smooth, silent wood. Failure, of course, was inevitable; as the young buck enduring the pre-auction sale’s pitch was twenty two years old, tall, red-blooded and ripped, and very much alive. He heard…and felt…everything.

‘Will you check this out!’ The over-loud tone, flat cadence, and grating informality identified the speaker as the American software tycoon, ‘Kid’s got an ass to die for!’ The others grunted their affirmation as the American continued, ‘Don’t ya just love the peach fuzz- thick on the backs of his legs, faint and soft as a velvet scarf over the guy’s hard butt!’ He emphasized the point by tweaking the backs of John’s thighs, the tuft of hair at the base of his ball sack, over the smooth curve of his ass, to the twin dimples at the small of his back. ‘He’s a smooth one, so you’d hardly know unless you got a close up view.’ This, a tacit acknowledgement of the MOSLA agent’s generosity in allowing such a thorough examination of the merchandise. The others crowded in for a closer look as the exuberant American continued, ‘Damn! Guy’s ass (he squeezed hard) is just made for a paddle…’ Light laughter aimed at the uncouth Yankee, but nevertheless appreciative, swirled around the shamed buck clinging to the post as if it were a life raft. The MOSLA agent felt inspired, ‘Gentlemen!’ He gathered their attention with the ease of long practice. ‘You will notice, over on the far wall, a small collection of disciplinary equipment- indispensible for maintenance of a slave and, I might add, included with the purchase. Please, if you are at all interested, feel free to select one for…ah…a small demonstration. He busied himself, as the guests perused the assembled equipment, re-attaching the chain binding the slave’s manacles together and looped it through a ring mounted at the back of the pole. John was once again immobilized and the moment of possible flight, however symbolic it may have been, passed unnoticed. The customers returned with their respective choices clutched in eager hands and gathered around the naked form of the terrified buck. The dealer turned toward the portly Arab (obviously a favored customer), fingering a short cat made of multiple strands of braided black leather, noting the obvious disappointment of the American entrepreneur tapping a broad oak paddle against a bony knee. Winking at the American, he chuckled, ‘There will be time for everything, sir, as the boy is young and strong…and that, gentleman, is precisely the point.’ He politely motioned toward the Arab who handed him the cat. ‘You see, though the merchandise here at MOSLA is top quality and meticulously trained, we are also careful not to spoil the product, recognizing that the experienced connoisseur usually desires a young slave with spirit, some light left in his eyes if you understand me?’ Each of the men gathered around nodded knowingly as the dealer continued, ‘and, besides, you do realize that this superb animal is…alive . Yes, and not only that, but only recently brought into captivity from his wild state. As such it is natural, no matter how thorough his training here at the facility, that he receive clear direction, ongoing training, and, above all, firm discipline. Never forget, my friends- John is a wild animal and must be treated as such.’

The demonstration lasted the better part of an hour as the MOSLA agent, trained in multiple areas of expertise, displayed the multiple uses of the tools selected by his guests and the various parts of the young man’s strong body most aptly suited to the particular attention of whip, paddle, clamp or electrical goad. John, twisting sweat drenched against the pole, gasped the usual litany of the punished slave- incomprehension to the effect that ‘he hadn’t done anything wrong’, pleas to the non-existent humanity of the delighted onlookers, even mumbled curses barely heard but vastly appreciated, and the sound of that rich voice, mixed up with the slap of a paddle or snap of the lash, excited a lust for ownership in more than one deep pocket; all as the skillful MOSLA man intended.


Finally released from the hard embrace of the pole, the young slave was ushered from the room and given to the custody of a guard as the potential bidders craned their necks for a last look at his tear stained face, the depth of his sweat streaked chest, potent promise of swinging cock and balls, or inviting curve of reddened ass…until he passed through an open door and was lost to sight. Each of the men hoped fervently that it would not be the last time they made the exquisite young buck’s acquaintance and the mental calculations began. ‘That, my friends, concludes the pre-auction demonstration for today. I trust you found the experience enjoyable?’ The question was clearly rhetorical and, without pausing, the dealer continued, ‘I will leave you now for a little while as attendants will soon arrive to show you back to the guest wing of the facility. Please continue to avail yourselves of the many amenities available here- your comfort is our pleasure! In the meantime, may I remind you that the slave called John will be presented this evening at half past six in auction room number five. Bidding will begin at precisely quarter past seven. Good luck, gentlemen!’ He bowed primly and left the room.

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