The Telemachus Story Archive

Modern Slavery
Chapter 8 - A bargain at any price
By Amalaric (Illustrated by Amalaric)
Email: Amalaric

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The establishment was well known but only, and paradoxically, within a very secretive, select and, might as well admit it, wealthy circle of…ah…clients. Situated in a once booming warehouse district not far from the waterfront, the neighbourhood now looked semi-derelict, yet to be gentrified, and that, except for those patrons who understood certain necessary dynamics, was a mystery that defied explanation- the property should have been converted to high-end apartments, flats, and slick boutiques years ago. Instead, it remained half-ominously/half-charmingly rundown, out of the way, attracting only the ‘right’ kind of attention.

I parked my bottle-green Porsche in the secure garage half a block from the rambling brick warehouse that, despite appearances, functioned as the reason and epicentre of the neighbourhood. Pocketing the keys, I wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like if the cops raided the place while I was there, perusing the stalls, ‘shopping’ for merchandise and, as always, chuckled to myself- the cops had to be in on things, there simply was no other way. No worries, dude…relax and…enjoy! I licked my lips, adjusted my suddenly tenting trousers and headed for the gaping, but well guarded, exit from the garage.


Rapping on the metal-bound door of the looming and deceptively ramshackle building I was aware of being scrutinized by any number of hidden cameras as well, probably, as the appraising stare of the burly attendant who eventually opened the door. As always, I marvelled at the studied style of MOSLA (an acronym for a fabulously wealthy and very secretive company called Modern Slavery), creating a background atmosphere of casual, masculine, sweat-soaked energy- a slaver’s version of the slick glitter of a top notch automobile showroom- that belied the high-tech nature of the company, whirring no doubt in pristine, even sterile, offices just behind the scenes. Surrendering to the conceit, I grinned like a kid in a candy shop, flashed my ID to the doorman who pretended suspicion, though he undoubtedly already knew exactly who I was, and strolled over the threshold into the overheated interior that smelled of the indefinable spice of male bondage; sweaty fear, longing, explosive muscular and emotional energy, and, OK, the patrons’ hot desire.


I won’t bore you with the details of every buck perused that evening, or of the rambling procedures and contours of the strange indoor market that filled the space of what passed for a semi-derelict warehouse. Suffice to say, it was a veritable wonderland of merchandise on display, not one buck inferior or flawed in any way; MOSLA was top notch and rigorously maintained its standards. Still, all of that being said, there was one- alone in an austere stall, both brightly yet subtly lit for maximum effect- that put all of the others immediately out of mind. I entered the room, took a deep breath and stood mesmerized for several moments, utterly in awe at the helpless male on display before me. It is what transpired after crossing the threshold of that very special place (the recent memory has my hands shaking, even now as I write these lines) that forms the substance of this story.


He refused, of course, to look me in the eye; turning his handsome head of short cropped dark hair away in a three quarter profile, eyes cast downward toward an indefinable spot on the concrete floor. I doubted if the stance was motivated by humility but rather, I suspected, from incredulous shame at his predicament. The buck probably also had a good idea of the examination procedures- all according to MOSLA standards- that were almost certainly about to occur. The entry of an interested customer into his solitary stall must have been a dreaded occurrence. I stared, temporarily struck dumb by his beauty, for what must have been four or five long, delicious minutes. The buck, for his part, submitted to my silent perusal because he had no choice, and I drank in the carefully arranged contours of his terrible predicament. He stood, shirtless, with hands manacled behind his naked back completely immobilized against a tall iron post. Alone and utterly vulnerable in the center of the otherwise (except for a single chair) barren room, the sense of dangerous, if harnessed, strength was overwhelming. His powerful legs- evident, even though he was clad in belted levis; MOSLA was cleverly strict in that regard and never allowed merchandise to be casually displayed fully nude- were lightly spread and equally immobilized with metal cuffs fastened around the buck’s bare ankles and attached to eyebolts in the floor. The tall stud was able to flex, flinch, and shift his weight within a narrow perimeter, but was otherwise held helpless and stationary awaiting a potential customer’s satisfaction. Though wearing levis, the display was cleverly subtle, even belted his trousers sagged until finally snagged by the high rise of his muscular buttocks giving me a long view of a naked torso rippling with hard muscle- from the deep sweep of broad tanned shoulders and rounded pecs crowned with bronzed nipples, lower to rippling abs, a deep inverted naval, twin femoral arteries pulsing with anxiety, and the hard, flat expanse of lower belly finally hedged in by a solid inch of his exposed snowy white cotton briefs. Pure perfection…begging the intrepid adventurer to venture further! He was breathing hard, from terror or anger I was unable to tell and could care less, tensing himself against the invasive touch that was sure to come. I decided not to keep the young stud waiting and moved forward.

Laying a hand on the hard, warm curve of his massive shoulder, I gently stroked the skittish animal- over a bulging bicep, along the ridge of a furry forearm curling toward the manacles behind his back, then switched to the glossy perfection of his muscled rib cage, testing the animal’s flank from hot armpit to the tight border marked by the blinding elastic of his shorts. Though he must have endured the same treatment from other customers, my young buck flinched like the virgin he undoubtedly was, hating my intrusive touch, resenting the passivity enforced by cold metal as he stood immobile against the post. For my part, loving every minute of the initial exploration, I made a point of thoroughly probing the depth of his sweat-streaked chest, casually violating the unknown erogenous territory of wide bronze nipples, the ticklish expanse of corrugated abs, all the while watching the scandalized expression of disgust and pent-up fury playing like a film across his handsome face. Upping the ante, I reached lower and unbuckled his belt…

‘Sir!!’ The ubiquitous MOSLA sales attendant, who had accompanied me into the stall, spoke up, ‘Removal of the slave’s trousers along with a full, nude examination of the merchandise comes with an extra examiner’s fee of $300.00…payable immediately.’ He smiled and flashed a rectangular machine designed to process credit cards. Irritated by his glib efficiency, I roughly prized open the first steel buttons of the buck’s levis, spreading the denim fly wide over his briefs, ‘Listen carefully to what I have to say…’ I glanced at his name tag, ‘Byron.’ The salesman’s expression changed in an instant, hackles raised by my challenge to his authority. I smiled coldly and continued, carefully establishing the proper pecking order- a game I was very familiar with, ‘My credit card(s) would buy me your ass and the rest of you as well, spread eagle, buck naked and gagging on equal measures of pain and humiliation in any number of the empty stalls that litter this warehouse.’ He stared at me in stunned silence. ‘Let me put it in simple English,’ I said. ‘My purchases with MOSLA, over the years, have surpassed what you will make in a lifetime…and I am presuming you are well-paid? Well, whatever the case…I am a ‘platinum card’ member of this establishment, and if you want to quibble about a $300.00 examiner’s fee…do it on your own fucking time!’ I finished prizing the last steel button of my muscular stud’s levis open and briskly hiked them down to his ankles, revealing magnificent hairy thighs and calves and a bulge in his tight shorts that spoke very well of things to come. Casually tracing the head of the mortified captive’s thick cock outlined against the fabric of his briefs, I sat down in the only chair provided and invited the chastised sales agent to describe some of the details of my extraordinary find.

‘Does it have a name?’ Not that things like that really mattered, but my question was seized upon by the discomfited clerk, who chirped an affirmative, ‘Well, not exactly sir! Of course, I suppose he must have had a name once, and you may name him anything you like…after purchase,’ he stammered, still clearly uncomfortable, ‘but here he is simply known by a tag ID- ‘Alpha Buck-class, 24003a’. I nodded in non-committal fashion, though secretly pleased, waiting for more. The clerk continued, happy at last to be of service, ‘He stands six two in bare feet, narrow waist, thick biceps, broad shoulders etc., everything is self-evident… Just turned twenty two years old, certified heterosexual (an excellent investment as a breeder), with only six and a half months of training since capture…’ He paused to take a breath and I smiled, more enamored than ever with the big stud chained to the post two feet before me, listening in scandalized silence to our exchange. The sales rep was clearly warming to his subject, ‘Ummm, some customers favour a semi-wild buck over the tamer variety produced by the entire twelve month program of training and discipline, you know,’ he winked, ‘preferring to complete the process themselves.’ I nodded sagely, thereby acknowledging that the inexperienced clerk had nevertheless described my tastes to perfection; oh, yes indeed! I know just how to finish up your training, stud! And I do like them…ah, ‘semi-wild’!!

Rising from my chair, I approached the wary male animal chained helpless against the post. Of course, he had been listening with rapt interest to my conversation with the sales clerk and was breathing hard as he frantically tried to process the implications of his predicament. I laid my hand on his heaving chest, savoring the heat radiating from planes of hard pectoral muscle, searching for the thumping heart beat with my open palm. Found it! Pulsing like a farking jack hammer- you scared, just a little, buck? Maybe so…but then again, you might just be fighting a hot tide of rage, wishing you could shake off the embrace of this cold iron post and slam a meaty fist into my smiling face? Half-wild…I like that!!! I decided to up the ante, giving my alpha buck something else to think about as, turning once again toward the clerk, I casually asked, ‘Run the boy’s genital description and measurements by me, please.’ The clerk smiled and, reading from a well-thumbed notebook suspended from a hook in the wall, crisply replied, ‘I can assure you, sir, he is quite well endowed.’ He knitted his eyebrows in concentration and continued, ‘Penis- five and a half inches flaccid, over an inch in diameter at the root…’ I nodded- a combination of approval and the will to go on. ‘Erect, his length increases to an impressive eleven and a half inches!’ The clerk paused, allowing the image that that information supplied to sink in, then went on, ‘His balls are well shaped, nearly evenly hung and (given a fast of a few days) deliver roughly an ounce of pure cream when milked.’ I was impressed and showed my respect and gratitude by hooking my thumbs in the elastic waistband of the mortified buck’s briefs, hiking them down to join the pooled denim at his ankles. Naked for all practical purposes, the animal twitched against the post, deeply humiliated by the invasive examination, ears burning with the banter concerning his most private parts. ‘You mentioned that he is heterosexual- this has been verifiably observed?’

‘Indeed,’ the eager clerk responded, ‘not only was he observed mating with a female when forced to the act in our clinic, but he has been wired up and tested to various visual stimuli- definitely hetero, sir.’ I smiled even more brightly if such a thing were possible- my boys needed to be straight as the proverbial arrows; it made the eventual breaking, with attendant humiliation, all the more interesting and, yeah, profound. I looked into the buck’s averted brown eyes- oh yes, six months in MOSLA’s clutches has taught you what to expect…but I still may have a few (nasty) surprises up my sleeve!! Reaching between his lightly spread legs, I grasped the stud’s warm balls, testing each individually until my sweating bull looked ready to gag. ‘Time enough to milk him later,’ I remarked, carefully watching the emotion playing like a storm across the bound slave’s handsome features. ‘I would, though, like a swab…just to make sure he’s ‘clean’, no diseased goods, if you take my meaning?’ The carefully re-constructed demeanour of my patient sales clerk frayed again as he looked at me in horror. ‘Sir!!!! MOSLA’s merchandise is ALWAYS…ahhhh…clean!’ By this time I had the alpha buck’s thick penis in my hand, testing the long length of the shaft from the loose folds of his ball sack, along the sensitive inseam, to the flared rims of the velvety, circumcised head. ‘I learned a long time ago never to judge a book by its cover. I want a thorough probe and culture swab before I’ll even consider showing you the business end of my credit card, and I will conduct the procedure myself- now, go and fetch the damn swab!!!’ The clerk huffed with indignation and left the room, leaving me alone, if only for a short time, with the tall naked stud, sweat-slick and flexing with anxiety under my relentless examination.

‘Can you speak…or are you too stupid for something that complicated,’ I smiled, trying to goad the buck into a response. I watched as he gritted his teeth, briefly turned his handsome head and willed me a thousand violent deaths with flashing brown eyes. I like you too, dude- a lot!!! The silent response lasted only a few seconds before he bowed his head, once again averting that burning gaze, staring instead, for all I could tell, at the arcing shaft of his penis waiting, terrified, for something unspeakably invasive. A few more minutes ticked by and the dawdling clerk still failed to return with the swab. I re-examined the helpless stud’s physique, testing, stroking, probing from head to toes…as he stood immobilized, taking it because he had to. ‘What’s your real name ?’ The question, implying perhaps a measure of humanity- my gift to the tethered animal so utterly at my mercy- elicited an instinctive, even surprised, response, ‘Mark. Mark Robertson…’ His voice was as beautiful as his face and body and complemented each, somehow, perfecting the symmetry; deep but melodious, strong and questioning at the same time. Knowing in that moment that I would have the buck no matter what price MOSLA asked, I decided to begin some tentative training in the few minutes left before the clerk’s return. I continued the questioning, in the same calm, matter of fact tone of voice…but radically changed the subject, ‘They say you’ve been trained with the strap, is that true?’ ‘Yes.’ Simple, direct, his baritone took on a gravelly quality as anger rose like bile in his throat. I glanced at the far wall of the artificially contrived cell- and knew for a certainty that…Mark…had undoubtedly already done so a thousand times. Hanging there was a selection of paddles, leather straps, and even an antique nine-strand cat. Lifting one of the straps from its hook I quickly verified its authenticity- nice heft, thick yet supple. ‘I’m going to own you, boy. Maybe you already have that figured out?’ He stared at me blankly; a mute protest all that was even remotely allowed. The strap flicked out, guided by the motion of my practiced wrist, and bit his hairy thigh. I marvelled at the beauty of aroused anger as his eyes lit up and widened with incredulous rage. ‘Like that?’ I taunted, and laid another across his tensed abs. I watched, fascinated, as his jaw worked its way around any number of silent obscenities; wishing me dead...and admired the buck’s self-discipline- no groan, no curse, not even the usual sharp intake of breath. ‘When I get you home, this (and more) will be common payback for minor infractions. Understand?’ ‘Yeah,’ uttered in a hoarse whisper. Have to train this boy in the etiquette of servitude- ‘sir’ is a word he will learn to savor… ‘Of course, for more serious infractions other forms of punishment will be employed- got to tell you Mark; I’m kind of partial to a naked buck stretched tight in a frame…and (almost an afterthought) I’m a farking expert wielding the penis whip. Ever felt one?’ He turned his head away, grimacing with embarrassment and reluctant rage, as I fell ever deeper in love with the stud’s captive masculinity.

The door swung open and the prissy MOSLA sales clerk swished in with the requested implements. I glanced over my shoulder with initial annoyance then, seeing what he had in his hand, smiled broadly with satisfaction. ‘Thanks,’ I muttered, accepting the largess. The clerk nodded and, previously chastised, had the good sense to retire to a corner of the cell. I turned toward Mark, gazing with uninhibited fear at what I brandished in my right hand. ‘Hold still and, if you can, shut your eyes…This is going to be a shit load of fun for me and hell for you!’ I laughed and grabbed his balls firmly with one hand to steady him, and his cock with the other for some fun and games. ‘Please, man!!!’ Suddenly articulate, Mark’s sweet concern filled the cell like incense. ‘That thing’s huge- you’ll ream me, man!! Wreck me inside…’ ‘Nonsense,’ I replied and, applying firm pressure to the flared head of his captive penis, edged the serrated, metallic probe toward the gaping slit. He tried, of course, to shy away; jerking hard to the right against all reason since, tethered to the pole, the buck had little enough room to manoeuvre. I smiled brightly and, pulling hard on his sweat-slick testicles, stopped him in his tracks. Finally, an audible groan of pain and (better) resignation, as he ceased his struggles, tensely reconciled to the unthinkable.

Firmly but subtly exerting expert pressure on the shaft of my handsome victim’s penis, I prized the narrow slit open and positioned the blunt end of the serrated probe, nosing it past the gaping aperture, hands still firmly grasping his sweaty balls as Mark did his best to stand still. I have to give the buck some credit- he really tried to salvage some dignity, refusing to cry out even though the whole length of his naked muscular body shook uncontrollably, sweat running like a flash flood in an Arizona arroyo…and only at the very end, as the wide serrated rigidity neared the root of his cock did the former soldier let loose with a ragged groan of pure agony. Well done, boy! I jerked the probe free of his artificially erect dick and favored him with a mock frown as a shriek bubbled up from his heaving chest, ricocheting off the walls of the room. I thought Mark might pass out but, mustering his fading strength, the buck merely bent against the chains binding him to the post, head bowed with pure exhaustion, mingled tears and sweat pattering like soft rain on the concrete floor. I rolled the shaft of the probe in the proffered Petri dish, transferring a culture that I knew would show no sign of disease, and turned toward the mesmerized MOSLA minion. Without even asking a price, I winked- ‘I’ll take him. Would you be so kind as to put him on my Platinum card?’


I watched, satisfied, as the gratified clerk- backed up by three subordinates armed with cattle prods- released Mark from the post before efficiently re-cuffing his hands, which the slave touchingly clasped modestly at his groin. Mark was not invited to put his clothing back on because I had opted for the custom brand that MOSLA always offered, both as a courtesy and at a minimal extra cost. It remained for me to decide what part (or parts) of his exquisite body, rippling with planes of inviting muscle, might be appropriate for my, ah…signature. The ubiquitous clerk explained that a buck’s pecs, biceps, shoulder blades and buttocks were all favored places and, for yet another extra, though admittedly minimal, charge I could have him worked on in up to three places- more than that would put a strain on his system, though I was, of course, welcome to return him to the shop for further customization at a later date. I had already declined castration and various piercing options and, I fear, was somewhat of a disappointment to the eager clerk (a man who obviously loved his job!) when I remarked that I really didn’t want to spoil the ‘view’ (so to speak) and so would prefer a smallish brand on my buck’s upper left buttock. Mark, perhaps embarrassed by his last minute outburst provoked by the penis probe, made no complaint; the tall buck stoically allowed his handlers to lead him from the sales cell, myself and the oily clerk following closely behind and thoroughly enjoying the view of his firm pumping ass, down several long corridors, through a back door exiting the public part of the sprawling building. The branding room was tucked away among various other spaces given to utilitarian purposes. Once again, however, MOSLA (knowing that the customer would almost certainly be in attendance at the procedure) opted for atmosphere- stone walls and a flag stone floor and (I smiled) even a brazier of live glowing coals under a bright dancing flame. As my naked buck was bent over a thick wooden table, wrists and ankles firmly immobilized by leather cuffs, I was handed a pad of notepaper and a drawing pencil in order to sketch my custom signature design. In no time at all, the freshly crafted brand was brought in and presented to me for inspection. Nodding my head in distracted approval, I turned my attention instead to the six foot slab of live masculine meat bent over and strapped chest-down against the slick surface of the old oak table.

The whole procedure went without a hitch and I beamed with satisfaction. Mark, of course, had refused to plead; clenching fine white teeth instead, head resting in tense expectation on the slick surface of the table. I enjoyed stroking his sweat-damp hair, re-assuring him that this was going to hurt like fucking hell…you know, the usual stuff. He flinched slightly as I stroked the long expanse of his muscular back, toying a bit with his balls hanging doggy-style between splayed legs, before fingering the hard rise of his lightly furred ass- scrubbed, swabbed, and ready for some searing action. He flinched for real as the glowing iron sank into the swelling muscle and a thin stream of pent up breath escaped those lovely clenched teeth…and that was all. It was my turn to be completely impressed, never having witnessed such stubborn self-control before. Dude…you are going to be PURE JOY to break, oh yesssss!!!! Relentlessly, completely, and oh so slowly… The clerk invited me leave the room as Mark was hustled out a different door- swaying with deserved exhaustion but touchingly supported on either side by burly MOSLA orderlies- and I reluctantly complied with a last, lingering look at my purchase. He would be processed and delivered to my home within the week…


Finding my way out of the sprawling establishment I noted the usual sense of disquiet; reluctant to leave such a delightful place. Responding to ‘one of those feelings’ I turned at one point and caught the glare of what had to be a semi-wild specimen much like the one I had purchased; glaring his pent up frustration and hatred, the buck had potential- tricked out suggestively in nothing but a sagging jockstrap he was immobilized at wrists and ankles, lightly splayed against parallel slats of unyielding steel…waiting for any and all to pause and examine the tense muscles of his very fit young body. I made a mental note of the stud’s location and continued on my way.


Somewhat less than a week later I received a phone call at 3 AM, duly recited a treasured pass word and received some much anticipated information. ‘Mr. Amalaric?’ ‘Yes…damn, I wish they would learn to pronounce my name right!!! ’ Sleep still played around the corners of my vision but was quickly dissipating, I mean, who else would dare call at that hour? ‘This is your local MOSLA field agent.’ Ever-cautious, he didn’t bother to explain the acronym. I was all ears and waited for him to continue without replying. ‘I am pleased to inform you, sir,’ he continued, ‘that your purchase has been processed and is ready for delivery to the address specified…may I confirm that address?’ I did so with pounding heart and hung up the phone. Not bothering to go back to sleep I stumbled in a haze of anticipation toward a closet and pulled down a few suitcases. The ‘address specified’ was a secluded get away on a private island I owned far from prying eyes. It was there that I kept a very special stable.

Mark arrived, as promised, a day and a half later all cloak-and-dagger just the way MOSLA liked it. The sun was sinking into the west like some exotic tropical fruit oozing blood as the approaching helicopter made itself known and within an hour was gone again, leaving me in complete and undisputed possession of a nervous young animal wondering, with a potent mix of emotion that I could only guess at, about the new life ahead of him and (no doubt) already searching for eventual means of escape. Time enough to watch as Mark quaffs the final dregs of hope and, very soon, to commence his long and arduous training. MOSLA had him wrapped nicely- shirtless, but back in no-nonsense fly front briefs and baby-soft faded levis. Lightly oiled, my newly delivered slave had that showroom smell of soap, a hint of patchouli oil, the unmistakable musk of a young male, and more than a hint of naked fear.


‘Take your pants off.’ The prosaic first command nevertheless spoke volumes. The MOSLA people were long airborne and Mark and I were (except for a few trusted servant handlers strategically situated) alone. He hesitated as expected and I decided, on the spur of the moment, to move slowly, testing his real responses and the limits my slave was prepared to go to before heavy discipline altered and expanded them. ‘It’s really fairly simple- open your fly and shuck off those levis- bucks at this estate generally wear nothing but their briefs, go nude at my whim and pleasure, and dress to the nines- as you are now- on VERY special occasions. Got that, boy?’ His hands were cuffed on a short chain of less than six inches and my goons were very much in sight. Mark warily nodded and wordlessly did as he was told; shucking off his trousers, he stood straight and faced me as a buck slave should- naked but for a scanty ‘loin cloth’ that (I quickly noted) did nothing to hide the hefty bulge at his tight crotch. ‘Very good.’ I nodded to the goons, ‘Nigel, Malcolm… Would you escort this animal to its quarters?’


Mark’s training has now gone on for many months and, I reckon, has many, many more months to go before he is ultimately broken- not to his manhood, but to my will, and I am an expert at that sort of thing. Like the stock animal that he has become, my buck lives by a strict routine. He rises at dawn (rousted by minions not by me!!) and is set to healthy labor at the model farm that I keep as a sort of conceit on my estate. He is tanned to a pleasing golden color, fit as a male buck can ever be; often labouring in the nude under the tropical sun of my remote island paradise. I have taken special care with Mark, not sparing the quirt (for basic direction) or strap or paddle (for things a bit more serious), or even lash for his more difficult instruction. He has become familiar with the well-used wooden frame in my basement and makes a mouth watering sight stripped naked and bound spread eagle in his muscular splendor, cock and balls hanging free (the only part of him that will ever know THAT luxury), awaiting his corporal lesson in this or that as the lash is kept breathtakingly busy. It wasn’t easy…at least not for Mark. Like the dog that he is, Mark is being trained to respond to stimulus. In his cell is a light. I press a red button in my room and smile because I know that several floors below a muscular young male has seen the sudden electric glow and knows, now, that he must respond. His heart is still far from acquiescence and, maybe, I like it that way…but Mark also knows that he had better prepare himself for my attentions, whatever they may be, and he does now…reluctantly, grinding those beautiful white, even teeth, slowly ascending the stairs with an unwilling script- so painfully learned- on his lips, ‘Yes, sir…how may I serve you?’

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