The Telemachus Story Archive

Modern Slavery
Chapter 7 - Loading and shipping
By Amalaric (Illustrated by Amalaric)
Email: Amalaric

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The transit of freshly snared young slaves was a complicated operation requiring maximum finesse; dangerous in the extreme, the heat was invariably on and the casual or searching eyes of the outside world remained, for a time, riveted and roving, searching for a glimpse of the hapless captives. Talking heads on local news stations blared bland concern, close ups panning to tearful relatives hoping against hope that the disappeared husband, son, or boyfriend would turn up safely, exacerbated by the absence of any explanation or ransom note but, of course, none of the vanished bucks was ever seen (in public) again. The essential jobs of scouts and snares were finished and these waltzed, relieved and happy, to the bank to deposit fat fees and, for jobs done exceptionally well, equally generous bonuses. MOSLA rewarded work well done.

The journey to MOSLA training centers was the penultimate (preceding eventual sale and integration of the slave to his new master’s accommodation) goal of transit and this was accomplished in stages. ‘Safe’ holding places were established, near the place of capture, for the crucial ‘first night’. Afterward, the newly captured buck (or bucks) was taken to a special kind of warehouse, absolutely secure and oddly spacious, where other frightened, defiant, and thoroughly confused male commodities from a broadly designated geographical locale were stored. The fresh bucks then underwent certain initial evaluations before being shipped to their destination- usually quite quickly, within a matter of a day or two- at a regional MOSLA training facility.

The long van with carefully darkened windows pulled up in front of the bland brick façade of the isolated warehouse and glided to a stop. Idling for the regulation four minutes, the engine was finally cut and silence returned to the deserted cul de sac but only for a few seconds. Almost immediately, the front doors of the van were thrown open as three transportation agents piled onto the pavement and moved, cat-like, to the side and back of the vehicle. At the same time, the large corrugated door of the loading dock was rolled open and several MOSLA warehousemen accompanied by well-trained guard dogs leapt from the raised concrete platform, joining the transportation men around the doors of the van as they were thrown open, peering into the shadowed interior- all (except for the dogs) were armed to the teeth. The cargo, cowering in various states of consciousness, was worth a fortune and had to be unloaded quickly and carefully. It had been a rich haul as the company was culling a lot of bucks from the general population in anticipation of the seasonal spike in demand as the Summer approached; four strapping studs, each with a story to tell, freshly captured and, therefore, still wild. One exceptionally muscular buck had had to be sedated and was hoisted up, meaty ass caressed by a gentle breeze, on the sturdy shoulders of a seasoned warehouseman grunting with pleasure as he savored the warm pressure of the helpless captive’s cock pressed against his shoulder blade. Damn, I wish I could afford to buy one like this! Dream on… The groggy slave was tossed onto the concrete platform and hog tied, but not before the warehouseman had the chance to cop a fast feel of the dude’s impressive equipment…one of the perks of the job …before turning back toward the van to help the others unload the rest of the shipment; all wide awake, scared and angry and very skittish. For all of that, the work went fast. It had to as the situation remained dangerous- both in the sense that the bucks arrived with a shit load of aggressive attitude and the fact that the warehouse, though isolated, was still only semi-secure. The guns helped and the dogs knew how to do their job as well, looking fearsome and delivering well-placed nips when and where necessary. The three remaining commodities were hustled out of the van and fitted with standard metal restraints, replacing the rope, PD plastic, or even bungee cords that may have sufficed in the primitive condition of the one-night holding tanks scattered around the broad belt of metropolitan area that this lot had come from. All of the remaining studs were shirtless but otherwise clad from the waist down and that was fine; there would be plenty of time for some specialized evaluation once the loading dock was secured but, even so, the workers were given some slack, and this was company policy as it helped if new arrivals were humiliated and even terrorized a little and so nobody minded when one of the workers casually ripped open the front of Steve Conway’s jeans and then hiked them down to his ankles.


The interior of the slave warehouse was spacious and, at first glance, oddly prosaic, crowded with the usual paraphernalia; pallets and packing boxes, straps and dollies, spools of duct tape…rope. A second look revealed the true purpose of the place as small groups of fit male commodities were immobilized and grouped in the open spaces waiting for various procedures before shipping. MOSLA was nothing if not efficient and the real complexity of processing would become apparent to the frightened, angry, and confused cargo on arrival at the main facility, but there was still plenty to be done in the warehouse.


Rob Stockton was a case in point and, though he was yet unaware of his special fate, would actually never see the inside of the central facility or undergo the thoroughly professional rigors of MOSLA training. One of the sub-foremen paged though a stack of memos and printed out e-mails (delivered by private, encrypted server) attached to a battered clip board. He had been alerted to a special notice, not really all that uncommon, that catered to the needs of a particular sort of clientele, eager for the ‘unfinished’ product and quite willing to take on the rewarding but difficult hardship of full training without the interlude of assistance provided by MOSLA at the main facility usually lasting several months and culminating in a round of auctions. Sort of like buying a bedroom set at IKEA and putting it together yourself… Unlike IKEA, however, these products- removed from the auction circuit- cost a premium, take him or leave him, exorbitant price un-negotiable. The advantage was obvious; not only did the customer obtain a thoroughly wild buck primed for the special joys and challenges of training, but the ‘type’, that is to say, physical, and even rudimentary mental, characteristics down to the smallest specified detail, were honored by the dealership. If the customer wasn’t satisfied the slave could be returned after a two week trial period and a full cash refund obtained. The sub-foreman smiled, scanning the recent arrivals, making mental notes and comparisons to the all-important memo, until he spotted Rob Stockton. He checked the memo again before nodding to one of the floor grunts to isolate the buck from the small group he was with and escort him to one of the examination cubicles.

The grunt was business-like and not unnecessarily rough. Rob allowed himself to be guided by a hand placed firmly on his shoulder, not really having all that much of a choice since his hands were shackled tightly behind his naked back. He was scared and pissed off, still slightly dazed as a mere five days before he had kissed his live-in girlfriend goodbye and gone to the construction site as usual, and now… ‘Strip him down.’ The command, so matter of fact and to the point, raised the hair on his scalp with now familiar rage and he winced as trousers and briefs were roughly pulled off leaving him fully exposed to the appraising view of the sub-foreman. ‘Looks like just the right type- I reckon about six feet, blond, blue eyes, regular features- show us your teeth, boy- excellent muscular development…’ he casually ran a hand over Rob’s chest and biceps, lightly kneading wide shoulders, testing his abs. ‘Good hair pattern; smooth upper torso with just a little dusting to make things interesting.’ The monologue seemed surreal in its business-like proficiency and Rob’s eyes narrowed with perplexity as the sub-foreman accompanied his chatter by scribbling notes on the clip board- what the hell is going on???! ‘Turn him around, Johnny. Ah! That’s great- hairless back and a deep, muscular ass (both marked as ‘essential’ on the memo).’ The sub-foreman seemed pleased and Rob was levered around to face him once again, blushing with humiliation as the arrogant bastard reached out and grasped his cock and balls. ‘Better get a measurement on these, Johnny. The requirements are explicit.’ Rob submitted as tape measure and calipers yielded some impressive figures, duly recorded on the clip board. ‘I think he’ll do boys!’ And, turning toward the tall buck he flashed his brightest smile adding, ‘You just made us all a decent bonus, dude!’ Nodding at the pile of discarded clothing on the floor the sub-foreman ordered one of the grunts to get Rob’s briefs back on- so the customer will have something to unwrap- and then, with a wink, added, ‘Right, we’re done here- get him boxed up and we’ll call it a day.’ What the FUCK is going on?! Rob was led trembling from the cubicle and left by himself for a few minutes, reclining on a large packing crate. Soon enough, though he wasn’t yet aware of the terrifying ordeal that faced him, the grunts would return with rope and duct tape.

The valuable commodity was prepared for shipping- hog tied and gagged, aware at last of what loomed ahead, his wide blue eyes flashing a garbled plea born of sheer terror as he was manhandled into the box, crying now as the lid was lowered into place shutting out the light. Johnny looked at his partner and shrugged, noting the other man’s pallor as the buck was sealed into the crate and the lid nailed into place. ‘Don’t worry, Kyle- he’ll keep. See? There’s plenty of air holes drilled along the sides and we’ll ship him out within the hour. Yeah, sure, he’ll probably piss himself somewhere in transit and come out of that crate pretty dazed…but in a day or so he’ll be signed for and safely delivered to his new home and, who knows? I’ll bet whatever cage his buyer provides will look damn good after this!’ Kyle relaxed and burst into laughter. ‘Hey, Johnny, I’m starving… Was that the lunch bell?’

The meat inspectors arrived around mid-afternoon in an unmarked van and immediately sought out the foreman. Though it was a rare occurrence indeed, there were times when a scout or snare missed a glaring defect in the livestock so assiduously stalked, captured, and eventually gathered at the warehouse. It was up to the meat inspectors to conduct a thorough initial examination of the raw merchandise, culling out those very few who didn’t meet MOSLA’s strict standards. These were derisively labeled as ‘dog food’ and hustled off to related non-MOSLA dealerships, generally in Africa and South America, where they were delivered and sold in bulk lots for minimal remuneration to the company. A subsidiary task of the meat inspectors involved precisely the opposite function; that is, to identify specimens of exceptional quality and tag them for the various aims and uses of the company, which kept and honored an extensive ‘want list’ submitted by erudite and very wealthy customer collectors from around the world. Thus, if a Russian oil magnate, re-living a fantasy of the Cold War, just had to have a young American GI to play with on his isolated country estate, he might submit a request- complete with physical characteristics and even mental disposition- and, when a buck fitting that description appeared the company would send a notice, usually a few weeks before the freshly trained GI was due to mount the block at auction. Though not necessarily completing the procedure of culling, tagging, and specialty identification, the meat inspectors did, however, initiate the process in an important way. After a cursory consultation with the foreman, the inspectors settled into a spacious cubicle and waited as the warehouse grunts ushered defiant, frightened, and always confused bucks into their presence- occasionally in pairs or even threes (depending on the volume of the stock on hand), but usually one at a time.


Josh McNeil stood forlornly at the end of one of the long isles, immobilized by heavy leg irons, with shirt stripped off and fly of his levis spread wide open. Though his hands were free, he didn’t bother to button up his trousers; it was purely amazing what a mere week and a half in MOSLA custody could accomplish in terms of a man’s attitude and Josh had already learned a few lessons regarding consequences. If some fucking faggot grunt wanted to open up his pants, well, Josh might grit his teeth or blush at the humiliation…but he left his levis unbuttoned, fully conscious (as intended) of the handsome bulge denting the soft cotton of his Y-front jockeys. The two grunts came for him after the 12:30 lunch break, sizing the big stud up for a few minutes before motioning toward the cubicle where the meat inspectors waited. Josh clanked doggedly between his beaming escorts and entered the examination area, surprised by the appearance of the inspectors and the contrast they made- clean cut, business-like, with button down long sleeved shirts and pressed polyester trousers- to the shabby grunts who remained, however, smirking in a corner of the cubicle. He knew an utterly irrational stab of hope; these guys look reasonable…maybe they can help me… ‘What’s your name, boy?’ The harmless question, spoken in a matter of fact tone devoid of emotion, froze Josh’s blood and hope died like a spent leaf in an icy wind. ‘Josh McNeil…’ mumbled, with more than a hint of sullen defiance. ‘Previous occupation?’ Josh looked up and fire flashed in his gray eyes, ‘What the fuck do you mean by previous ?! My name is Josh McNeil, lieutenant (and I worked my way up through the ranks you black hearted son of a bitch ) USMC…that answer your question?’ His handsome face was contorted with anger, but the inspectors didn’t seem all that impressed and certainly not intimidated, scrawling instead in their notebooks, nodding to one another and, for the first time- Josh noticed, and felt an inexplicable rush of anxiety- the pair seemed to express just the flicker of some real interest. ‘Not bad, Hal; looks we got ourselves a soldier and not just that, but a bonafide marine. They go for a premium.’ ‘Good point, Ted…and, I’ll tell you, this one looks the part too and does it damn well- check out its face, chiseled classic handsome, full head of hair, straight nose, expressive eyes, full mouth and square jaw. Fuck, I love the buzz cut!’ Hal paused and scribbled observations in the notebook. ‘He’s damn tall, looks somewhere in his mid-twenties, with a nice upper physique,’ Ted chimed in, ‘Smooth chest, which could go either way depending on the customer, wide shoulders and lats tapered to perfection over flat abs with just enough ripple to make things interesting. Shit, boy, is it the training or are you a closet gym rat after hours?’ The pair laughed and Josh felt the full rush of unfettered anxiety rise like bile as one of the inspectors nodded toward the open fly of his levis, blinding him in a flash to any and all consequences. Forced to recall who he was and where he had come from, the young marine awoke to a rage hotter than he had ever known before.


One of the inspectors approached and Josh watched, incredulous, as a key was produced and the irons removed from his ankles. Now or never! ‘Get your pants and shorts off, stud, and let’s have a look at the rest of you.’ What Josh didn’t realize was that freeing his feet, aside from making it possible for him to strip, was calculated; will to resistance being one of the things to be evaluated. It didn’t matter. Fast as lightening he lashed out, winging one of the inspectors painfully on a flabby bicep, and was just as quickly brought screaming to his knees as a lurking grunt thrust a taser into the pit of his stomach. ‘You OK, Ted?’ The other inspector rubbed his upper arm and grinned. ‘Yeah, but I’m putting in for a fucking purple heart.’ Josh huddled on the floor clutching his belly, trying not to puke or let the welling tears leak from the corner of outraged eyes. ‘On your feet, boy!’ The point was brought home, quite literally (if counter-productively), as the taser brushed the buck’s chest causing him to convulse in fresh agony, rolling, now, on the concrete floor and gasping for breath until, nudged in the ribs by the toe of an Italian made shoe, Josh finally staggered to his feet, shamefully averting his tear-stained face from the gaze of the fascinated inspectors. ‘Looks like he has some spirit and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.’ Hal methodically scratched the latest observation onto the rapidly filling page of the notebook. ‘Right- where were we? Oh yeah…strip those pants off, soldier- NOW!’ Swallowing hard, Josh complied, shucking the warm jeans down to his ankles then kicking them into a corner. He knew what was expected next but paused, frozen by the strobe of his hammering pulse. ‘Drop your shorts, boy. You got a fine, meaty pair of calves and thighs on you…but, you know, we’re here to check out the whole enchilada.’ Ted burst into laughter at that last remark as Josh heaved a sigh and, hooking long thumbs into the elastic of his jockeys, slowly hiked them down. He reddened at the look of stunned amazement on the faces of the two inspectors but wasn’t really surprised and had, all along, dreaded this moment that he knew, deep down, would eventually come. Hal whistled briefly with unfeigned admiration before nodding toward one of the grunts, who cuffed the naked buck’s wrists (his attitude had already been tested and noted) and Josh was tersely commanded to stand straight with hands clasped behind his close cropped head. Twin pairs of eyes roamed his nudity with impunity, always returning to the wonder that rode between his hairy thighs. ‘Fuck me!’ Hal’s amazed admiration was unfeigned. ‘Was your daddy a rodeo star- of the four legged variety???!’ Josh, of course, had heard it all before and, being 100% straight, had laughed off the locker room jokes and saved his swagger for a feminine audience. Still, facts were facts and couldn’t be denied; MOSLA was in possession of a rare catch and the meat inspectors underscored the point by dotting twin exclamations in their respective note books.

In fact, Josh McNeil was hung like the proverbial horse and, as often as the old cliché made the rounds, in his case it was nearly literally true. The inspectors took their time, first gathering the requisite measurements- ‘Damn, can you believe it, Hal? Almost six inches flaccid and a good inch and three quarters at the base!’ Ted grasped the warm rod in his hand, testing the suppleness of the smooth shaft, feeling the pulse that surged in the large vein running from root to flared head. ‘Yeah…and the wonder of it all is…’ Hal hefted Josh’s hot balls, ‘this guy definitely is NOT one of those teasers- you know, all meat but no potatoes, shit, check out his nuts! Spread your legs nice and wide, boy.’ Josh went rigid as his testicles were pressed forward, taut against the clammy skin of his sack, lightly squeezed like fruit in a market for firmness then clamped between cold calipers for measurement until, everything duly recoded in the notebooks, his tingling balls were dropped to swing lazily between the muscular columns of spread legs. Dizzy with rage and unaccustomed shame, the young marine fervently hoped that the bizarre physical exam was finally over but was disappointed as Hal stepped forward and ran a finger up the long shaft of his cock and slowly circled the sensitive head. ‘How long you been in our custody, soldier?’ ‘A week and a half,’ mumbled obediently in sullen undertones. ‘That’s time enough. I reckon we ought to make sure all of that impressive equipment you got riding between those hairy thighs is in proper working order, if you know what I mean? And I expect that after a week and a half you might just have something stored up in the ol’ batteries!’ He laughed and lightly slapped the slave’s captive balls. Josh winced and shook his head in confused consternation. He wasn’t exactly sure what the asshole meant, but had a vague idea and the crazy thought flashed through his mind again that he should make a bolt for the door, but memories of the taser and the leering grunts watching from across the cubicle prevented it. The tall soldier remained rooted in place, hands clasped, white knuckled, behind his head, hairy pits and the cleft of his chest glistening with the first dew of nervous sweat. Horribly exposed and helpless, he tried to still the pounding pulse felt at the base of his neck, afraid that the inspectors could strip his mind and heart as easily as ordering him to shuck off his clothes- but the stud’s humiliation and fear were subtly betrayed by the merest tremble in his long, muscular body hinting at the emotion roiling behind wide gray eyes.

‘What do you think, Ted? Should we do him standing or…’ Hal glanced at his watch even as he continued to finger Josh’s cock, pondering technicalities. ‘Nah, let’s do it by the book. Lower your arms, boy.’ Josh gratefully obeyed, thoroughly confused by the banter. Hal motioned toward the loitering grunts, ‘Hey guys, give us a hand and help get this buck up on the table.’ Josh was quickly surrounded and propelled by hands placed firmly against broad shoulders and at the small of his back toward a wood table that had, until now, gone unnoticed. Fuck no…what’s this all about? He struggled against the odds, thoroughly alarmed, but surrendered to the threat of the taser and several fast slashes of a light whip against his hairy ass, hopping up onto the surface of polished wood, as directed, on all fours with hands and kneecaps splayed wide. One of the meat inspectors produced some loops of nylon cord, which he passed trough eye bolts set at the corners of the table and then tied securely around the helpless stud’s wrists and ankles, immobilizing him, still on all fours but fixed now in the splayed position. ‘Damn, you’re a fine sight. If I could afford it, I’d snap you up at auction in a second and a half- and that is the farking truth, dude.’ Actually, the inspector’s words were meant to calm the nervous stud for reasons that would soon become apparent but Josh was unimpressed, panting his fear at the nameless invasion rapidly approaching; his head hung low between raised shoulder blades, corded muscles of levered thighs already lightly cramping, rounded ass clenched with righteous determination. Josh’s magnificent cock and balls swung freely above the surface of the table visible from all angles and he was painfully conscious of the exposure, feeling the fine hairs dusting his ball sack prickle with dread. Ted laid a hand gently behind the immobilized buck’s hot neck and ran a slow course down the long sweep of his muscular back, stopping at the twin dimples and tuft of silky hair just above the crack of his ass then repeating the motion as his other hand traced the arched rib cage before dipping underneath, following the hard ridge of stretched pecs to the center of his chest. He lingered there for a moment measuring the pounding of the big stud’s heart. ‘Try to relax boy, it’ll make things easier.’ Josh winced as the lingering hand resumed its stroll- down the long curve of chest and abs to the thick bush of pubic hair surrounding the sought after prize dangling like a lode stone between his legs. ‘What are you gonna do to me?’ he gasped, and the straight young marine’s head drooped lower in pure desperation as Ted gladly began to explain the procedure.

‘See, boy, though you haven’t yet accepted the fact, you’re now some prime and very prized livestock belonging to a company that we all call MOSLA. I know…I know,’ he noticed, amused, as Josh reflexively pulled against the rope binding him on all fours to the table, ‘it ain’t the way you expected to end up in life but let me tell you, man, this represents the mother of all career changes.’ He and Hal bust into laughter. ‘They call us meat inspectors and that’s exactly what we are- and you’re the meat. Now you also have a fine sample swinging there between your thighs and, well, it’s time to make sure everything is on the up and up…if you’ll excuse the double entendre. OK, here’s the deal- me and my partner here are going to milk you, soldier. Yep, just the same as a cow in the barnyard or, maybe better put, like a bull in the stall.’ ‘FUCK NO!!! You can whip me, yeah I know! You can even shove that electric stick into my gut, but I’ll be damned if two shitheads like you guys will ever get me off!!!’ Josh gave a mighty pull at the nylon rope, flexing massive muscles and in the process setting his horse cock and plum-sized balls swinging freshly in the still air. He nearly yelped as one of the inspectors ran a ticklish track up the inseam of his balls then back again before circling his dick and initiating the first slow stroke of many. A few minutes passed in something like sacred silence- except for the silky sound of the rhythmic stroking and the deep humiliated panting of the muscular marine tied on all fours to the table.

‘Hmmm, I said it would be easier if you cooperated, boy, but make no mistake; one way or another we’re going to get a measurement on your extraordinary tool…rock hard and primed for action and, after that, check out how much juice you can deliver. Got that?’ ‘Fuck you,’ Josh mumbled, burning with shame and blinking stinging sweat from his eyes. ‘We got some thickening, though, Ted and that’s a good sign,’ all muttered as Hal toyed with the sensitive velvet rim of the flared head of Josh’s cock. Ted paused in the lazy circle traced around one of the buck’s erect nipples and, glancing down, chuckled. ‘What’s this? I thought we ordered you to strip?’ Not waiting for an answer, he twisted the gleaming ring of white gold that Josh wore on his left hand. ‘Were you married, boy, or just wishing it was so?’ The question, seeming so casual, tugged at the last shreds of the stressed buck’s composure; throughout the ordeal of the last week and a half, taken unaware after a night drinking with buddies, almost on his fucking doorstep, the image of Julie- waiting, worrying…loving- had seen him through. ‘Yeah, I’m married…’ delivered in a hoarse whisper barely audible above the hissing stroke of a stranger’s hand pumping his dick. He and Julie had tied the knot almost a year ago and, though he didn’t bring much home as a jarhead lieutenant, life…had been…good. Josh felt his resistance crumble as the wedding ring was pried from his finger and brought to near-surrender as the tears welled unbidden and splashed the hard wood of the table. I’m sorry Julie…so damn sorry… ‘Think I’ll keep this as a souvenir if you don’t mind?’ Without waiting for anyone to answer, Ted continued, ‘But maybe a last look, and all that it conjures (he licked his lips lasciviously) will help things along?’ And he set the gleaming band on the table beneath the sobbing young soldier’s bowed head.

Undressing each other for the first time on that perfect afternoon three years ago, feeling her hand slide beneath his half unbuttoned shirt, dipping lower, almost shyly but so hungry as it pressed into the suddenly crowded and very hot bulge in his jeans…they had both laughed…and the sight of her tear drop breasts with pink nipples turned up like twin invitations to ecstasy…Julie!! The two inspectors nodded knowingly at each other, not wanting to disturb the reverie as Josh contemplated the wedding ring. Hal exerted all of his skill, dancing lightly one minute then whirling extravagantly the next around the stiffening rod of the captive marine. That’s right…let go, let it all go… And the sound filling the cubicle changed subtly to a wet slide of foamy heat as the buck’s penis reached its full potential- duly measured at eleven and a half inches- throbbing like living iron fresh from the forge, naturally lubricated now by rich spools of clear precum. Ted decided it was safe to hazard a remark, ‘No reason to be embarrassed just because you’re straight, boy- most buyers prefer their bucks that way.’ Though hardly oblivious and red with shame, Josh was, in another sense, beyond caring. His erect cock had betrayed him and the rest would follow. He blinked back fresh tears and saw the imprint of the wedding ring against his closed eyes. ‘I think he’s getting close, Hal.’ Ted took a deep breath of sweat saturated musk emanating from the splayed buck and stroked his flank for a moment before lightly fondling Josh’s heavy balls. ‘Yep…he’s getting damn close.’ And it was true; each touch elicited a healthy shudder of pure sexual energy, pent up this last week and a half on the threshold of hell, now stoked to mindless excitement. ‘Slow it down a little, Hal. Tease him to maximum release.’ The rhythm of hypnotic electricity running from the inspector’s firm hand to the super-sensitized rim of Josh’s throbbing cock slowed to a feathery crawl, tracing esoteric swirls against the engorged head of a very hungry hammer, bobbing with impatience light years from the embarrassed hesitation just a few moments in the distant past. The marine entered a trance of sweet agony, uttering low groans- like the animal that he was- half protest, half plea for mercy and more than half demand for quick release, which was, however, artfully denied.

Hal traced a meandering pattern along the twitching muscle of the marine’s inner thigh, smiling as the muscle jumped in surprise and a ragged gasp of shamed longing bounced off the walls of the narrow cubicle. A long trail of precum welled from the winking slit of the buck’s cock and drooped, like a stalactite composed of liquefied diamonds, in a viscous stream widening the already substantial puddle on the table. ‘Get the bucket!!!’ Ted obeyed with alacrity, anchoring a stainless steel bowl in the sticky pool of precum directly beneath the rigid penis that now formed the entire focus of the man who had once been Josh McNeil. He was only dimly aware of the prying fingers levering apart the muscled ass that had once been clenched in righteous indignation. A dazed groan, dredged from some sliver of his mind that still knew with awful clarity exactly what was happening, greeted the insertion of a forefinger to the third knuckle. ‘Prostate’s hard and tight as the proverbial chastity belt. Let’s see if we can turn things around?’ Ted then proceeded to massage the sensitive contours of Josh’s inviolate hole and the inner sanctum of his secret manhood even as Hal increased the tempo along the shaft of his electrified cock. The result was gratifying. The proud marine lurched forward, quivering ass suddenly pointed toward the ceiling, down on his elbows convulsing in a mixture of sobs, groans, and yelps of joyous release; his huge cock leapt in Hal’s firm grasp, balls tightly retracted but still prodigious as his cock, with a final shudder of defiant obedience, sprayed a thick stream of steaming juice noisily into the stainless steel bowl.

Josh McNeil shuddered as the head of his traitorous dick was swabbed clean and, released from the table, staggered to his feet. The fire, lurking somewhere, was banked by a flood of sweat, tears, and streams of hot semen. ‘You did well, boy, and I think I can assure you that somewhere, wherever he might be, your future master will be every bit as impressed as we were. You’re a born breeder, that’s for sure, and lucky you if it works out that way. More likely you’ll be used for sport but don’t fret too much about that- those guys who buy the likes of you have all sorts of serums and toys to help along the…ah…performance.’ Ted scooped up the wedding ring and slid it into his pocket as Josh was led, staggering, from the cubicle.


The big semi pulled up to the loading dock and eager grunts jacked the door open. It was the busy season and there were several bucks, the fruit of a careful harvest, ready for shipment. Each would fetch a handsome price and had been carefully selected and subjected to rigorous initial evaluation. More would follow, but the work was the task of other men at MOSLA’s main facility. The task at hand was to get the crowd of studs loaded and shipped out on the last leg of their journey terminating at the training center. None had been in captivity more than a few weeks and so they were all pretty raw. Well, several months at the facility would take care of that. ‘What we got here boys?’ The foreman was all business. ‘Load of eight, boss,’ one of the grunts shouted. The bucks were led to the dock, depending on circumstances and twists of fate clad variously in full kit, naked to the waist, or down to their briefs. Some resisted and that was OK; the grunts got a kick out of that. All were eventually hogtied, gagged, and packed into the back of the semi before the false walls were raised and the door bolted ominously shut. ‘Good job guys,’ the foreman had to shout over the revving engine of the semi as it pulled slowly away from the warehouse. ‘Take a break before the next lot- you deserve it.’ He popped the tab on a can of Budweiser and smiled broadly at his hardworking crew.

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