The Telemachus Story Archive

Modern Slavery
Chapter 9 - Processing and evaluation
By Amalaric (Illustrated by Amalaric)
Email: Amalaric

Previous chapter


Something about the neighbourhood had always given him the creeps and that, by itself, deepened his unease because, on the surface of things, nothing really seemed all that wrong. Sure, the buildings were rundown- faceless old warehouses and shuttered businesses predominated- but nothing sinister had ever actually happened…the young cop stopped in his tracks. And maybe that’s just the farking problem . He scratched his handsome head of short black hair. A place like this should be crawling with low life, but what we got instead…is nothing, like a desert or…safe zone, or something . Mike Sandoval was a rookie, 24 years old and more or less fresh from the academy, disregarding a dark itch of instinct and missing his partner (away already for a week and a half on his yearly vacation), the young cop decided on a deeper, more thorough, investigation. The decision proved to be fatal.

What the hell???! It happened so fast that Mike almost thought he was dreaming. Fuck, I KNEW (somehow) it had to be that old red brick warehouse… Approached by the book, every antennae of caution and training at full alert, he melded with the shadows like a pro, approaching the faceless exterior of the looming building that somehow felt, well, wrong…but he couldn’t put his finger on it and maybe that was what blunted the edge; who really knows? The goons appeared from nowhere, without warning, guns pointed at his head, heart and points in between before he even thought about his own firearm snug in its well-oiled regulation holster. You’re fucked Sandoval… and that wry thought signalled the end (though he didn’t know it at the time) of his life…at least life as Mike Sandoval understood it to be.

They disarmed him of course; quickly, efficiently, with barely a word spoken and, rendered helpless, the good looking cop got his wish after all- ushered inside the sinister red brick building that his instinct had correctly identified as the epicentre of what he could only describe as ‘wrong’. What happened inside, as Mike Sandoval was roughly strung up spread eagle and stripped naked by a pair of off duty (but nevertheless avid) scouts, sent the young cop’s imagination into hysterical over-drive, but Mike didn’t really have a clue; it would soon get much, much worse than even his sensitive imagination could suggest.


Six months later the local station still buzzed, more than ever in fact, with the unsolved disappearance of one of their finest young rookie officers. Mike had been popular and endearingly idealistic, a real cop’s cop, and, besides, he was ‘one of their own’ and killers of the men in blue (he was presumed dead) were, in the eyes of the force, just about the lowest scum imaginable. No effort was spared but the case remained unsolved, dead ended in a morass of false leads and paper work and maybe it was just those things that made Mike’s grieving partner Rick Travis suspicious in a way that bordered on paranoia- it had to be an inside job, or at least given the nod by powers that be... and the thought made the handsome young officer shudder; we’re the good guys, not supposed to act like that! And besides- who would pick on a guy like Mike? Why??? Still, he couldn’t shake the deep, instinctive suspicion and more often than not found himself taking the investigation into his own hands, making it a private affair far (he naively thought) from prying eyes at the station…or elsewhere.

Hello!’ The chirpy female voice also had a kind of gravitas, obviously a recording, ‘You have reached the offices of Bonham and Steiner, specialists in all of your transport needs, please leave a message and we will get back to you at the earliest convenience.’ Ignoring the obvious, Police Chief Ed Montague paused briefly and delivered a cryptic message, ‘Alpha Blue 397a 4550 XBF,’ he paused for emphasis before continuing, ‘Code Amber, possible resolution 14/02/14 at approximately twenty one hours.’ If anyone had been listening at the other end of the line the last part of his strange statement would have, at least, been intelligible- tomorrow evening, Valentine’s Day, at approximately nine o’clock. Immediately the strangely seductive female voice revealed itself as very much alive, ‘Good morning Chief Montague. Please hold and I will connect you to our regional offices.’ Montague wiped the sheen of cold sweat from his forehead and took a deep breath. ‘Chief Montague? I am the MOSLA representative in your area, how may I be of assistance?’ The police chief fought a sudden urge to slam down the receiver, maybe scream, file for immigration to points unknown…irrational; MOSLA paid him damn well and he had nothing to worry about…he hoped. ‘Six months ago one of our force, Mike Sandoval, was taken by MOSLA and has…’ he coughed uncomfortably, ‘by now presumably been processed.’ There was silence at the other end of the line. Montague continued, ‘The ensuing investigations have, following protocol, proved fruitless,’ his turn to pause, ‘except for the persistence of Sandoval’s partner, for whom the matter is clearly personal. Something needs to be done.’ ‘And you expect MOSLA to do that something ?’ The voice carried just the merest hint of a sneer- arrogance or sarcasm or a combination of both- Montague couldn’t tell and didn’t care. ‘Yes,’ he replied crisply and, to seal the deal, added, ‘I think it would be worth your time and effort; Rick Travis, the problematic partner, is unquestionably top grade goods, definitely worthy of your high standards…’ he grimaced, ‘ah…sir.’ The oily voice of the MOSLA rep took on a dreamy quality that made Montague suddenly nauseous, ‘Unusual for you people to deliver two specimens in a six month interval- risk factors and all being considered. I must say, we find that intriguing and, yes, even exciting. Well then, Police Chief Montague, consider the problem posed by Officer Rick Travis…ummm, taken care of.’ And he gently but firmly terminated the connection leaving the sound of buzzing static in Ed Montague’s ear.

Officer Rick Travis could hardly believe his luck- after months of pointless rooting around, finally a substantial tip. Arriving at his bachelor’s pad after work, the fit twenty five year old wolfed down a pre-cooked dinner and, foregoing his usual after-hours visit to the gym, headed back to his parked patrol car still proudly wearing the uniform of a city cop. He ditched the car several blocks from the spot identified by the informant and travelled stealthily by foot into the dark bowels of the old warehouse district. The neighbourhood gave him the creeps, but his excitement was, nevertheless, palpable- the phone call had been explicit, providing tantalizing details that only someone close to the real action could know…and the clear implication was that somehow, impossibly, his partner Mike Sandoval was still alive. THAT had galvanized the young cop. Well-armed and confident, Rick walked into the trap with admirable bravado, every inch a stud in uniform just begging to be taken down…and out.


‘Stop right there…that’s right…hands in the air, hold ‘em high…’ The line, almost a cliché, should have belonged to Rick. Instead, the young cop muttered ‘Shit!’ under his breath and stood dead still in his tracks, slowly raising his arms in the age-old sign of surrender. The blind alley had looked like any other and Officer Travis was careful and methodical…and yet… ‘Strip down.’


‘What the FUCK!?’ He had the sense to keep his hands in the air but made no move of any other kind. Strip down? What the hell for…? Who were these guys??! ‘Get your clothes off, boy- everything, NOW!!!’ More gunmen emerged from dark corners Rick hadn’t even imagined; covering him from all sides, as his primary assailant casually cocked the hammer of a loaded pistol with an audible click and pointed it straight at Rick’s head. Shaking with a sudden onslaught of adrenaline, Rick slowly lowered his trembling hands and unbuttoned his shirt, shucking it and the white tee onto the black abyss of asphalt at his feet. In other circumstances the young cop would have been proud to show off his lean, well-muscled physique and often went shirtless on warm days around the house or working in the garden…but this was a different story and, suffused with a strange and unaccustomed sense of foreboding and deep shame, his gaze glassed over, head averted, as trembling hands fumbled open the fly of his trousers. A few minutes later Rick Travis stood at attention, hands clasped firmly behind his head as ordered, confused by a sense of surreal incongruity as the lazy evening breeze caressed the short hairs on his prickling balls. ‘Turn around!’ Gritting his teeth, the once cocky cop obeyed, still following orders because he had no choice and grimacing with fresh humiliation as his hands were roughly bound behind his naked back…with his own cuffs ! A few minutes later Rick disappeared into the formless landscape of the warehouse district and would never be seen again…at least by friends or loved ones. But what he saw, immediately after the state of the art tungsten carbide door was shut and bolted from the inside of the rambling, nondescript old brick building, provided an introduction to a new kind of existence barely dreamed and rarely imagined; yet another strapping young male acquired by MOSLA, destined for evaluation, processing, training and, finally, the auction block.


Frog marched down a series of alternately brightly lit or shadowy corridors, Rick tried at first to track his surroundings; vaguely considering his inevitable escape and trying to convince a bruised imagination of the hero’s accolade he would receive when he returned with warrants and, fuck yeah, maybe even guns blazing… These bastards would pay big time for whatever shit they got up to here. The first of many sights that would forever alter his perception and, ultimately, break his proud spirit came almost immediately; passing an open door to an anti-sceptic looking room of scrubbed white tile, exposed overhead pipes and cold angles, he caught sight of a lonely figure hunched on the floor in a far corner. Clearly a prisoner, the figure was a handsome young male stripped to his briefs and athletic socks. By the look of his build, probable age, and hair cut he might have been military- hard to tell now- and was blindfolded as well as rope bound at wrists and ankles. Aside from the jarring sight of a handsome young man in his prime stripped and bound, there was also an overwhelming sense of vulnerability and helpless hopelessness…a kind of despairing desperation linked to enforced passivity that one might encounter in a victim seconds before his execution. The image was a fleeting one, as Rick was prodded around yet another corner, but nevertheless remained indelibly imprinted on the cop’s sensitive inner eye; did the young man have a name, who brought him to this place, why had they taken his clothes…and what would they eventually do to him? The cryptic sign on the open door had revealed nothing. ‘Holding cell’, like this was some kind of goddam police station…or something?!


Eventually Rick was escorted to his own kind of ‘holding cell’; a dreary affair with a single overhead bulb for light and a filthy cot on the floor. Unable to sleep, he spent the next several hours pacing the narrow space, trying to reconcile all that he had recently experienced with any sort of pattern that might provide a clue regarding the true nature of this place and, better yet, a possible route of escape. At some point the single door to his cell was unlocked and decent, if plain, food was provided. Rick ate in desultory fashion, waiting for the inevitable gambit. It came several hours later as the door lurched open again and a business suited executive type, flanked by a pair of burly guards, strode purposely inside. ‘Officer Travis?’ The sneering question was obviously rhetorical; they knew exactly who he was. Motioning to one of the guards to shut and lock the cell door the business suited executive-type wrinkled his nose and took a seat on the cot. ‘Yes… you were Officer Travis. The police chief was correct- quite a catch and well worth the effort.’ What the hell!!!??? Rick went white with shock at news of his betrayal and then deep red with gathering rage. He cleared his throat, spluttering, a thousand threats, questions, and rebukes all clamouring for expression…but was silenced by a wagging finger. ‘Please, no questions at this time…actually, no questions at any time…but since you are a special case, and because I find it amusing, I will offer a few explanations.’ The company exec flashed an arctic smile, daring Rick to contradict him. What he had said was true, but only in so far as it went. What he didn’t tell Rick was that the visit and subsequent ‘explanations’ were actually also the first tentative part of the future slave’s training; calculated to raise several key emotions, which would then be analyzed…and dealt with. ‘You see,’ he continued, ‘you have, er, stumbled upon one of the many facilities of an enterprise called MOSLA. This one is a combination of processing plant, warehouse, and- for the select few on both sides of the wallet (he snickered)- showroom. You, and others like you, Rick Travis, are the products we deal in- evaluated, processed, trained…and eventually sold. Does that answer any of your questions?’ ‘FUCK NO!!!’ Rick finally exploded and seconds later was writhing on the floor of his cell having simultaneously had a club jack knifed into his exposed balls and another slammed into his gut by the two respective guards. Though it had yet to dawn on the ex-cop, his training had well and truly begun.


Twenty minutes later Rick was cuffed, hands behind his back and then to a waist high ring mounted on the wall of his cell, shaking his handsome head in dazed denial. The company exec-turned-trainer droned on, ‘That’s right, Rick, like I was saying, in some ways you are fortunate. For instance, because you are what we refer to as a ‘special case’ the normal procedure for initial capture, transport, and even processing is waived. Of course, at some point you will be re-integrated and take your place in the normal system.’ Rick stared at him blankly. ‘Let me explain. This particular plant is authorized by the company for the exploitation of the entire urban area of this fine fair city as well as a three hundred mile radius of lesser urban and rural real estate. Naturally, real estate is not our business, rather, the sizeable herd of males roaming within the perimeter. Think about it; at least two million potential male slaves in their prime, any number of which may be selected by our agents in the field, spotted and then culled by snares. That process can be long and quite painful and that does not take into account the stress of holding pens at strategically located warehouses and eventual transportation to a major facility like this one.’ Rick listened with shocked intensity, a sick feeling festering in the pit of his stomach. ‘On arrival, the future slave must undergo initial processing followed by a detailed evaluation. Generally, initial processing follows a set procedure; small groups of males- never more than six or seven at a time- are herded into a specially designated part of this building by heavily armed guards. No, it isn’t what you are thinking,’ he laughed, ‘the weapons are loaded with high voltage charges capable of inflicting enormous pain and even inducing unconsciousness, but it is never our intention to seriously maim, much less kill…the commodities are far too valuable…’ he paused as if lost in thought for a moment, ‘though there are certain cases where the untrainable must, regretfully, be euthanized. Anyway, once the ‘pod’ (as we say) of raw males has been assembled, if any are still wearing normal, civilian clothing they are forced to remove it. All processed males are made to strip to their briefs.’

‘Nothing more than a ring of fucking perverts…’ Rick’s disgusted remark brought a hard backhand to the mouth, splitting his lower lip. His trainer continued, ‘Oh, much more than that!!! But, yes, the males are immediately stripped for several reasons. First, it is important and…to be sure…desirable to be able to both assess and to have access to the commodity’s physique at all times and in all situations. He is, after all, a slave. His musculature is no longer his own and soon enough will be, ah, taken in hand by skilled trainers, medics, nutritionists, handlers, and disciplinarians; all aiming at something as close to physical perfection that can be achieved before he goes to sale room or auction. But there are other reasons as well. The males are kept in a state of near or complete nudity as a constant reminder of their vulnerability and, for want of a better word, status. A slave has no need of clothing except, perhaps, as protection from inclement weather, but that, of course, is at the master’s discretion.’ Clearly relishing the subject, the MOSLA employee licked his lips and continued, ‘Dogs, work horses, stud bulls…have you ever seen one tricked out in dinner jacket and tie? No??? How about work boots, levis and a cotton tee?? No?!!! Well, there you have it, Rick…but perhaps you are wondering, then, why in the first phase of processing the males are only made to strip to their briefs?’ Actually, the question hadn’t even occurred to Rick (though he wouldn’t have minded the luxury of a pair of his own) but his host continued without, it seemed, ever pausing for breath, ‘From time immemorial slaves have been permitted a rag to cover their loins- not for warmth, or even modesty, but as a constant reminder of their master’s authority. Yes, I know it may seem odd at first. Look at it this way; your cock and balls…’ He emphasized his point by staring at Rick’s ample endowment, causing the young cop to blush, ‘are, by far, your most precious possessions. But, of course, they no longer belong to you but to your master. He may want to keep them under lock and key, (sometimes quite literally …the thought flitted through the agent’s mind and made him smile), reserved for those, oh, very special occasions (Rick shuddered at the implications), or he might desire to put them on display. The decision is always his to make.’ As if an afterthought, he added, ‘And if modesty is involved at all, well, it is the prerogative of the master and guests…never a slave’s! So, Rick, training actually begins in the first moments of processing…just as yours has (he winked), though in a slightly different manner.’

Not quite finished with his initial interview, the agent added, ‘Immediately after being stripped for processing the pod is herded to another part of the reception enclosure and registered. It is here that two momentous things occur; first, the new slave assumes a position of subservience- usually on hands and knees with forehead pressed to the floor- and it is while in that position that his number is recorded in the company record book. That’s all, Rick, but savour the moment because it is then that the young male’s previous name is irrevocably expunged. He may be given another at the whim of some or other future master, but really he is and will forever remain a commodity, only identified by a number.’


The enthusiastic MOSLA agent would have continued lecturing his captive audience of one but a buzzer rang outside and, on opening the cell door, a MOSLA medical orderly, this time dressed in mint green scrubs, announced that the subject was due for preliminary med checks in Bay 89b in less than ten minutes. Still securely cuffed with hands pinioned behind his back, Rick was prodded to his feet and, though he didn’t realize it, upon leaving the holding cell he was, at last, integrated into standard (as opposed to special) MOSLA processing procedures. His first intimation that he was now part of standard procedures came with some company; looking into the surprised, curious, always frightened, often sullen or angry eyes of other males recently culled from the herd outside and, like Rick Travis, forced to undergo the initial stages of a journey into servitude that would last a lifetime. MOSLA seemed to prefer groups of five to eight males at a time and Rick was integrated into a newly formed pod with six others; each manacled to another in a kind of makeshift chain gang. He was curious when fitted with a collar that seemed to have some sort of electrical device embedded in the light alloy. Its purpose was alluded to as the pod was herded into a featureless waiting room prior to their physicals. ‘No talking, lads, not a word!’ Nudging over to Rick, a tall, thickly muscled military type wearing nothing but his jock strap ignored the command. His deep baritone whisper intruded on the ‘white noise’ of heavy breathing, shuffling bare feet, and clanking chain, ‘Name’s Joe Cafferty and I can tell by the look of you that you might be a cop. Man, we gotta get out of this fucking…AAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGG!!!!!!!!!’ All six feet three inches of the animal that had been Joe Cafferty hit the floor with a resounding thud even as a ragged shriek was torn from his throat. Writhing on the white tiles, he clawed frantically for several seconds at the metal collar encircling his bull-like neck. Finally, foaming lightly at the mouth with mucus dribbling from flared nostrils, he heaved a last sigh and passed out cold. The handler knelt and checked the unconscious buck’s pulse and chuckled. ‘He’ll be just fine when he comes to…goddam brute could’ve taken a bigger charge than that one. Now, listen up lads: there’s always one cock sure bastard in every pod that virtually guarantees a live demonstration. You guessed it; collars are fixed with…ah…what you might like to think of as ‘consequences’. Yep, that little device sure does pack a wallop! Behave yourselves and things will go fine, disobey and wind up like this sorry sack of shit. Choice is yours…’ Forty five minutes later the pod was ushered into the Bay for the first round of med checks and, though oblivious to their peril at the time, an unfortunate few would also undergo a second phase having been signalled out for one reason or another and remanded for ‘lab work’.


But the first physical exam wasn’t so bad…ok, that was only true if seen in retrospect to what came after. The pod of semi-naked males was marched into the Bay where a contingent of eager medics, orderlies, and over-paid MDs awaited them. Each member of the pod, strangely bonded now by a kind of chain gang simpatico, was separated from the mini-herd, relieved of the hated collars, and ushered to various stations and tables and cubicles for a rapid barrage of both invasive and prosaic examinations. Rick was already stripped and his companions now shed their shorts and jockstraps, submitting stoically and in relative silence to various pinches and probes, needles for drawing blood, latex gloved fingers thrust up offended assholes, tongue depressors, flashing lights and stethoscopes…the whole gamut of medical paraphernalia that everyone becomes familiar with at various points of one’s life. One notable difference, however, was the excessive attention paid to the males’ muscular development with concurrent minute observation, duly commented on and recorded, of every conceivable bodily measurement. Particularly invasive were the genital examinations. Of course each of the bucks’ penis and testicles was handled and observed; notations made and suggestions given for circumcision (or the lack of one), length and thickness of the shaft and then the head…pubic hair checked for vermin…etc. But the length of a buck’s arms and legs were also noted and recorded; from the inseam of his crotch to a calloused bare foot or from hairy, sweat soaked pit to the tip of his index finger, as was the rippling length of his torso from the scandalized root of his exposed cock to the pulse at the hollow of his throat; along with the width of shoulders, chest, waist…and, of course overall height and weight.


Rick Travis gritted his teeth as he listened to himself described like a prime piece of meat. ‘Six one at one ninety; nice tone and definition, but maybe just slightly on the lean side…make a note.’ ‘Done,’ as the other orderly scribbled on a clip board. He winced as the orderly grabbed his balls then hefted them and his cock in the palm of his hand. ‘Good weight here and respectable size, gelding not recommended at this time.’ Rick battled a sudden wave of nausea. He was ordered to assume the ‘l’uomo vetruviano’ position- arms and legs spread wide as if in an invisible x-frame- ‘Excellent proportion! Snap a few photos for the records…right, very good, now take some of his backside… Hey, did you get the measurements of his biceps, lats, upper thighs? No?!!! What a dumb fuck!’ And, turning to Rick, ‘Hold still or there will be hell to pay.’ Rick grimaced and did as he was told; in this place, he was certain, hell would be paid in full.

../../amalaric/amalaric_mosla09_11_potencymeasurementsanddeterminationofsexual orientation.jpg

After what seemed an interminable time the pod was released from the first medical Bay and taken to another nearby room where a different team of medics awaited them. One, who seemed a jolly sort, grinned broadly and announced, ‘You’re going to learn to like this place, boys, because this is where we take…’ he made a sound as if a drum roll, ‘sperm samples!!’ And it was true; the main purpose of the place was to obtain, analyze, and bank samples of each of the male’s sperm, but as with the initial exam, there was also much more. The place was known euphemistically as ‘the sex wing’ since each procedure performed there had to do with the subject’s sexuality. One of the first procedures involved the identification and classification of a buck’s sexual orientation. This was done quickly and efficiently with a 99.8% range of accuracy. The subject was fitted in various places with sensors and a sleeve attached to his flaccid cock. He was then exposed to various visual, audio, olfactory and gustatory stimuli and the various reactions of pulse, breathing, sweating etc. but, especially, the changing size of his pecker, were noted and recorded. For reasons unknown the subjects often found this procedure particularly invasive and many made efforts to guard their privacy, but each subtle reaction was noted and each acted like a tiny ‘smoking gun’…’Hey! This one turns out to be gay!! Who would have thought…?’ The buck that had once been called Stan Gallo, ruggedly handsome, a sportsman, married and father of three, was mortified. Heaving a huge sigh he quietly began to sob. ‘Can’t figure out what gets into them, you know?’ Another of the medics shrugged in agreement, ‘Yeah, I mean it’s not like it matters much anymore and, besides, there’s some out there that will pay big bucks for a cute fag like him.’

Rick Travis endured the procedure and, like the vast majority of the assembled males, was certified heterosexual and duly identified as such with a small blue dab of paint on his left shoulder blade. Homosexuals were marked with red. Each was also marked in felt pen with a number between one and seven next to the dab of colour to signify where on the scale of the over-arching orientation he actually was; thus, a ‘one’ signified near complete affinity with the classification and a ‘seven’ signified real ambiguity. Both gays and straights that achieved sixes or sevens were almost certainly bi-sexual and, as such, highly prized. They were rare and versatile and, if properly trained to maximum responsiveness, would fetch a fortune at auction or showroom. Rick sported a hastily scribbled 2.5 next to his blue dab.

Finally, a third classification may or may not have been added to the combination of colour and number on the buck’s shoulder blade. Known as the ‘Fetish Index’ it provided hugely important and potentially lucrative information for a specialty market. One hundred and seventy five recognised categories were listed in a manual and each identified by a symbol. Articles of clothing, sadism, masochism, autoerotic narcissism, various species of animals, scat, tickling, uniforms and occupations, food, cross dressing, various body parts, certain specialised activities and interests…etc. were all of tremendous interest and duly noted. If one of the bucks registered positive to a fetish its symbol was added to the colour and number on his shoulder blade with a small rubber stamp.

When the various orientation classifications were complete, the bucks were given a final thorough going over to make sure that everything between their strong hairy legs was in good working order before finally being ushered individually into three sided open cubicles where a technician awaited them ready for the process of semen extraction. Each male was commanded to mount a table and squat- hands clutching ankles- facing forward, which afforded the extraction technician easy access to his penis so the milking process could begin. Though virtually all of the bucks, as free men, had at one time or another jacked himself off, very, very few had ever had it done to him…especially by another man. The sense of stunned shock as the realization sunk in that this was to be the next phase of the processing procedure was palpable, yet, having been forced through so much already and, by now, thoroughly disoriented and demoralized, most of the males complied. The sounds that suffused the room told an eloquent story: shuffling with small grunts of exertion as the tables were mounted, the soft sound of crunching and controlled breath as each squatted, assuming the proper position, on the plastic covered surface, followed by another soft sound- skin on skin- as his dangling penis was taken in hand by the attendant technician. Soon enough a wet quality suffused the increased tempo of the skin-slapping rhythm and, finally, the surprised grunt or occasional sob as climax was achieved and the rich flow of hot semen exploded from the breached dam, splashing into anti-sceptic plastic containers. Some of the bucks, however, reacted differently and Rick Travis was among their number.


The people at MOSLA knew perfectly well that every male had his breaking point but, also, that every male had his flash point- it came with the testosterone. Therefore, they were prepared for those indefinable moments when a buck simply couldn’t take whatever was being thrown at him anymore and, losing all rational consideration of consequences, merely reacted…usually violently. In every training manual these events were viewed positively as they afforded handlers an invaluable opportunity to guide the buck to new levels of acceptance and obedience through drastic use of coercion and discipline. ‘NO FUCKING WAY!!!!!!’ The hoarse shout echoed throughout the sterile confines of the facility. Having been motioned toward one of the milking stalls, Rick Travis snapped. Swinging both balled fists, he lurched toward one of the orderlies only to double over in surprised agony seconds later as an electric prod discharged above one of his kidneys. Still, cursing, he tried to stand straight but this time went down hard on his knees as another prod delivered stronger voltage to his right buttock. What he couldn’t do for himself was done for him when two MOSLA ward-guards hoisted the dizzy buck to his feet and half walked, half dragged him from the room.


What followed taught Rick a valuable lesson, though there would, regretfully, be times when he forgot. Namely, that no matter how horrific a command scenario at MOSLA seemed at the time, it was, nevertheless, best to obey and not obstruct what they referred to as ‘the process’. And the reason was simple; if resistance was offered, the scenario would play itself out anyway but with the added difference of vastly augmented intensity accompanied by a large dose of pain- physical, psychological, or both. And so, in the end, Rick Travis was milked…but not in the same manner as the other bucks in his pod. They dragged him from the multi-purpose ‘sex wing’ to an out of the way corner of the sprawling part of the complex devoted to medical procedures. There, safely ensconced in a small room that seemed to be part cell and part exam cubicle, Rick was completely immobilized with rope- arms raised and legs lightly spread- against a wall with multiple electrical outlets and various trailing cables. He was particularly irked by the rough hemp coils levering wide his upper thighs and framing his cock and balls in itchy isolation, which also had the effect of thrusting his genitals slightly forward. A sound was then casually inserted deep into his penis and attached to a bright red lead wire, while a larger, dildo-like object was inserted in his asshole until, hearing a trembling groan issue from the unwilling victim, his handlers knew that they had hit pay dirt- the buck’s prostate had been nudged by the torpedo. Further cables of brightly coloured wire were attached to nipples and testicles, he was given an injection of some dark green substance that immediately caused him to break out in a hot sweat…and then various switches were thrown.


The feelings that registered in Rick’s fevered consciousness were unlike any that he had ever experienced before. Thoroughly unpleasant on one level- part burning, part itch…both of indeterminate origin; the sensations seemed to engulf his whole immobilized body. They were also unpleasant on another level as he began the process of involuntary arousal, deeply humiliated by the experience and monitored by several pairs of amused eyes. He winced, skin suddenly ultra-sensitive, as one of the technicians ran a slow finger from his collar bone, down the cleft of his chest, where each of the hairs fairly shrieked with offended sensitivity, over the jumping muscles of his six pack…to the thickening root of his traitorous cock. Several minutes passed while the technicians adjusted various levers and dials deliberately slowing the process- both as an example to Rick and in order to obtain the maximum result when his semen was finally extracted, giving the creamy contents of his aching balls ‘time to cook’ as they laughingly put it. When his cock had been rock hard and throbbing with shamed desire for release for several long minutes the order was given to move the near-frantic buck a short distance to what was cheerfully referred to as the ‘grandstand’; a raised platform about three feet square. After removal of all of the various probes with dangling wires- with the exception of the monster wedged in his ass- his wrists were roped together and his arms hoisted high over his head and looped through a ring in the ceiling even as his legs were once again spread and ankles secured with more rope to rings mounted on the stand. At least the fucking hemp chastity belt is gone… but the irony behind that fleeting thought escaped him, though the awful reality of one of the technician’s hands encircling his hyper-sensitive dick did not. ‘Up the power on the torpedo wedged against the prostate, would you?’ An orderly nodded, twisted a dial, and the panting captive screamed. A few fast strokes followed by a careful aim and Rick Travis (blue dab/2.5) delivered the goods after all.

Rick never did find out what had ever happened to his partner and good buddy Mike Sandoval but based on his own experience he could make a really decent guess. The remainder of his induction into the industry operated and controlled by MOSLA passed in a blur of ever-deepening pain, humiliation and gathering desperation. This, of course, was the intent of his various handlers as the training was well and truly begun even in the earliest hours of captivity that would eventually deliver the finished product- a strapping, spirited-but-obedient male slave in his prime- to auction house or showroom.