Bill Underhill

A Slave is a Slave

Stories from the Comfort Complex

Introduction

Setting (from Collars): When you think of the expression "sprawling campus," the county Comfort Complex in Hadleyville might as well be in your mind's eye. The Department of Health & Human Services had actually taken over the whole campus of the county community college, a massively overbuilt white elephant that represented wasted billions of taxpayer dollars sunk into the production of college degrees in academic fields of no possible use to any kind of local or national economy.

Baccalaureate burger-flippers.

When the DHHS established the Comfort Complexes, these kinds of money pits had been ripe for re-tasking. They were all well-sited to receive traffic, required little modification to make them suitable for their new purposes, and were loaded with goodies like sports fields, gymnasia, computer systems, swimming pools, libraries, and auditoria.

'Comfort' isn't just about sex, y'know.

Hadleyville's local Conditioning Center for the compulsory exercise of children and teens was even sited in a fenced-off part of the old community college campus, and there was a tree-shaded 'picnic area' fronting the fenceline nearest the kids' running track where lots of grown-up men (and even a few women) sat to sip their bottled water and munch their soya crackers while watching the sweaty young bodies thundering competitively over the cinders in operating-room-green shorts and tee-shirts.

Even when you've got collared, naked little boys and girls bringing you your crackers and bottled water – and you can fuck them on the picnic tables if you want to – it's enticing to enjoy the sight of the forbidden fruit out there on display.

Background: The re-institution of chattel slavery – as legal indenture, term or lifetime – came to the republic in response to decades of fiscal irresponsibility culminating in the catastrophic fiscal meltdown of every national economy on the planet, positioning political progressives to take over the civil life of every country in the industrialized 'First World', wielding an iron hand in the enforcement of strong environmental protection along the ordained plan of the United Nations' Agenda 21.

That scheme intended the preservation of the environment by removing from Earth nine-tenths of the human race. That wasn't quite how things went in these United States.

Chapter 1

What the heck?

In Roger's opinion, he'd only been a slave long enough to kinda barely get over the haircut he'd gotten at the indoctrination center. They'd buzzed him super-close all around the sides and back of his head up to maybe a couple of fingers' breadth above the tops of his ears, and over the rest of his scalp he'd had something like just a regular haircut. The Discipline Master who'd gotten Roger out of the box thing in which the boy had been brought to Hadleyville had seen the kid making a face while scratching vigorously at his scalp, and the DM had smiled.

"It'll grow out," the man had confided. "If you want us to let it. The folks around here don't particularly like sex slaves looking like they're fresh out of a boot camp barber shop."

That was one of the rare times Roger had been given any kind of choice since the government had enslaved him. His response? "Uh, whatever you think is best, sir."

He'd gotten a lash of the quirt (not a really hard one) across his bare butt for failing to say 'Master'.

Boy slaves were always kept bare-butt because they were always sex slaves, and that made getting quirted sting.

Even though he'd had his eighth birthday about a month before he'd been made a slave, Roger was shorter than the average kid in his grade had been. If it weren't bad enough being a redhead with pale skin (so he'd gotten sunburn most summers) and freckles all across his face and shoulders and back, being the shortest boy in his class had been pretty disgusting. People kept thinking he was a First Grader, even.

There was nothing wrong with his muscles, though. In the conditioning center, boys were grouped by weight – what they called 'body mass index' – instead of age, and there Roger was one of the best for his size. In the sit-down-and-pay-attention stuff, he was even pretty good among kids a couple of years older.

At first, the really short hair lower down along the sides and back of his head kinda helped keep the strap of the ball gag from catching and pulling, like the rubber strap of his swimming goggles used to do. He'd gotten those for his eighth birthday, and he'd used them only a couple of times before he and the rest of his family had been ordered into slavery.

I wonder what happened to those things? he thought. The goggles, all the rest of his toys and books and clothes, his bedroom and his house and everything were 3; just gone. Taken away, he guessed, by the judge when his mom's business went bust.

Now Roger had to wear one of those stupid gags all the time when he was in 'public spaces', where the clients might see him. Once those grown-ups got him back into the places where they could do the sex to him, though, they almost always took the gag off.

Heck, a guy couldn't suck a dickie or do the tongue thing to a lady's cunny with a gag in his mouth, could he?

Roger had been watching an instruction vid on the little viewscreen in one of the long, grown-up-sized sleeping boxes built into the back wall of the ready area, wondering about lunch when the wake-up buzzer had sounded and the vid had been halted to show the face of the DM on duty.

"Up and at 'em, kid," the man had said. "You gotta client."

"Yes, Master!" The monitor had turned off then, and Roger had sort of halfway sat up and waited for the big square hatch down by his feet to open. These box things were a lot like the 'quiet cubes' used in school for kids who threw a tantrum or weren't allowed outside during recreation. Those had sounds and lights and even smells that made you feel peaceful and calm. These things in the comfort complex could do all that stuff, too, but they were made so that a big man could sleep comfortably in one (which made them seem enormous to a guy who'd been one of the smallest kids – boy or girl – in his class).

The glass-windowed hatch opened and one of the grown-up slaves – a man who looked a lot older than Roger's mom before the whole family got slaved – made a 'c'mon' gesture. Roger was glad to know that he'd have the man's help getting down from the second-tier array of confinement capsules. Mostly, they put him in one of the floor-level boxes, but Roger never seemed to get the same box twice in a row.

Didn't matter, of course. They were all kinda pretty much the same.

Grown-up 'work' slaves in the complex normally wore clothes, just the way other slave laborers did in other government buildings and businesses. Here inside the complex, they had a uniform, colored a kind of 'hospital green', just loose short-sleeved shirts and very short-cut shorts so that policemen and Discipline Masters could scan the code tattoos on each slave's right leg.

Seeing those worker slaves, Roger sometimes wondered if he might ever be allowed to wear clothes, but clothes really weren't needed if you were a sex slave, right? Besides, the law said that sex slaves got treated special. Sex slaves were supposed " 3;to be kept constantly available for use" by their owners and any other free people who were allowed to do the sex to them.

That makes us sex slaves different from the worker-type slaves, thought Roger. The grown-up men and women sex slaves he'd seen didn't wear any clothes, either. Some of them – for reasons Roger didn't understand yet – weren't even allowed to have any hair around their dickies and cunnies.

Maybe there would be something in the conditioning classes about that sometime, or in the instructional vids that were the only vids Roger ever got to watch now. He'd never thought that there would be much to learn about being a sex slave.

While Roger was still sitting in the 'doorway' of his cube, the grown-up worker slave had buckled leather cuffs around the boy's ankles, connecting them with the short length of chain just the right size to hobble him. The cuffs always looked too large on Roger because, of course, they were. But they were the smallest in complex's inventory. The Hadleyville place didn't have too many really little kids as slaves.

The laws said that a regular kid could be taken into slavery as soon as he was old enough to understand that he had to obey and let grown-ups do the sex to him. That was about five years old – six years old, for sure. After all, when you were six, you were old enough for First Grade. You knew you had to obey the teachers, and that you had to hold up your hand to ask before you could go to the bathroom, stuff like that.

How much more did a kid have to understand if he was going to be made a sex slave for grown-ups to use?

After getting Roger over to a toilet stall, the grown-up slave had ordered him to 'make water'. When they got him in the indoctrination center (which was somewhere close to where he used to live), that had been kind of a problem for Roger, but he got used to the 'pee when you're told' business pretty quick. It wasn't really any more trouble than when you had to use the boys' lavatory in school, right?

As for pooping, well 3; The indoctrination center guys had made that pretty clear from the get-go. Roger had learned about 'cleansing' when a grown-up there had given him his first enema.

His first bunch of enemas. The man had put the nozzle and the water up inside him – what? four times? five? – until all that came out of his bottom was pretty much exactly what had gone in. After that, he'd been taught how to do it himself, and why he had to do it after each session with the grown-ups who used him for the sex up inside his bottom.

Every now and then, a Discipline Master or one of the grown-up slaves still did the enemas to him, apparently just to check and make sure Roger was doing it right, and he'd gotten used to that, too.

It still sucked, of course, but he supposed it proved that you could get used to almost anything.

When Roger had emptied his bladder, the grown-up slave had then applied a pair of wrist cuffs, each with a short length of chain that connected to recessed tie-downs on either side of the also-slightly-too-big slave collar, which was stainless steel in a dull brushed finish. Then the man stood Roger still and went down on one knee to check that the boy's red rubber buttplug was in place.

"How's it feel?" the guy had asked with a neutral expression.

"Too big, sir." Roger had smiled a little. "The way it always feels."

He wouldn't have dared to speak like that if there had been a DM around to hear, but the man had just given him a little smile in return. "If you didn't have it, that healing gel I put up in there would've gotten all over the place. Let's get your package bagged, okay?"

Roger had nodded (as if he had a choice?), and the man had pulled a tube of sex lube from the pocket of his shirt, where he'd been keeping it warm. He'd spilled a little of it on one hand and then worked both hands together before rubbing Roger's stiffening dickie and testicles to make them slippery. Then the man had reached for the 'chastity' thing, a kind of very flexible metal wire mesh pouch that was connected all around to a smooth steel ring that Roger knew was no wider than the bottom knuckle of his own thumb.

The boy was always amazed at how small the ring was to go where it was going. The man had slid the steel circle – and the pouch – over Roger's hard-on and down almost to the root of it, then he'd carefully picked up Roger's left testicle and tucked it – ooch! – through the ring and into the bag. The right one had gone in a little more easily, and then the man had gotten the ring all the way up against Roger's belly, and used a bit of tissue to wipe away the excess slippery stuff. Finally, the grown-up had fiddled with the boy's naughty bits through the flexible mesh to make sure that Roger's balls weren't – you know – 'cross-eyed'.

It was weird, but Roger had come to prefer wearing this pouch thing instead of having his private parts out in the open when he was in the public access places in the complex. When he'd been a regular boy – instead of a slave – he'd done swimming in the pools at the conditioning center without any bathing suit, and he hadn't been embarrassed. The swimming had been always 'all-boys', and almost all of the other kids skinny-dipped, but there weren't any strangers around the pools when Roger was in there. The only grown-ups were the men who supervised everything, and you saw them around all the time.

He didn't mind the DMs and the slaves who worked here in the complex seeing him with a stiffie in the ready area or in the slave quarters downstairs. Boy-slaves and girl-slaves and women-slaves and the grown-up-man sex slaves (that was a weird thing to understand!) were kept separated, and a boy slave wasn't supposed to talk to any other kind of sex slave.

Heck, you weren't really allowed to spend much time with even the other boy slaves, though the DMs in the comfort complex weren't as nasty about that as Roger had figured they'd be. As long as you didn't get all rowdy or stuff, they let you talk and even play a little when you got free time with the other boys.

The people at the indoctrination center had been pretty strict, and the teaching vids Roger had seen – there and here at the comfort complex – had showed all kinds of sex slaves being on perfect behavior, miserable expressions on their faces and hardly even daring to look around.

Of course, you couldn't help seeing other slaves as you were ordered around back in the ready area, and all the slaves were kept naked in the quarters. And when you went to do your workouts and classes in the conditioning center that was part of the complex, they exercised you and taught you in a bunch with the other slave boys (and even the few slave girls) who were kept in the complex for people to do the sex to.

The DMs and the worker slaves and the other sex slaves were people he'd been getting to know, though, and none of them would laugh at him for being a boner-with-a-boy-attached.

But with the clients – even the ones who'd used Roger before for the sex – it had made him uncomfortable to be all-the-way naked in front of them except in the sexing rooms, so the 'chastity' pouch was something to make him feel a little bit better, even if it wasn't much.

Then the grown-up slave had put the ball gag into Roger's mouth, and he'd made the boy shuffle up to the doorway between the ready area and the pick-up desk, urging Roger through.

Now, however, Roger was faced with something he'd never seen before, and had never thought could happen. There was a client waiting at the desk with his own sex slave.

This was kinda screwy. Roger knew that there weren't many people out there who owned their own sex slaves, and those guys were rich. It took a lot of money (or you had to be a decorated military veteran or something) to get a sex slave for yourself. Oh, you had enough money you could sort of 'rent' a slave from the government to do your housekeeping or take care of your yard or stuff, and lots of businesses 'rented' slaves for work in stores and hospitals and factories and warehouses, but those were like the grown-up slaves who worked in the comfort complex. They weren't properly for doing the sex.

Roger was for doing the sex. Not much else an eight-year-old boy could do as a slave, right? He'd known that the sex was going to happen to him when the slave cops had stripped off all his clothes in the courtroom (right there in front of the judge and everybody!) and locked the collar around his neck.

His dickie had gone way hard the moment the cops had pulled his pants down and jerked them off over his shoes, and then really yanked his shirt all the way up over his head and off his arms, leaving him slave-naked for all the people to see. He'd been really embarrassed, but he'd figured later that everybody watching knew that Roger was being made ready to have the slave sex done to him, and a little boy slave's stiffie wasn't anything most of those grown-ups hadn't seen before.

He just hadn't known then exactly what the sex was going to be like.

But the comfort complexes were the places where most people went to do the sex with slaves, especially with slave boys and slave girls. Lots of grown-ups liked to do sex with kids, mostly with little guys who couldn't grow the hair around their Private Zone places.

Y'know, boys who didn't squirt the sperm stuff and girls who didn't have boobies.

Free girls got to grow up regular, but with injections to make them not have babies. Boys, though, got the sex development suppression shots every couple or three months – which stung like the blazes, right in your butt! – to keep them from growing taller or getting bigger Down There or having hair in their pits or around their privates.

A boy wasn't allowed to come off the suppression shots until he passed the testing for sexual aggressiveness starting when he got to be 15 years old. That way the grown-ups could be pretty sure that boys wouldn't do the rape to anybody, and you couldn't get girls pregnant because you didn't make sperm cells while your balls were undeveloped.

You could have a twin sister, and you wouldn't be allowed to catch up to her – not get as tall as her, or as strong as her – until you were like 16 or 17, which pretty much wasn't fair, was it?

A really small number of guys didn't pass their 'aggressiveness' testing at all, and when they got to be twenty-one, still looking no older than a regular 9- or 10-year-old, they were either sentenced to permanent sex slavery – and they would never be allowed to grow up – or they could ask to have their balls removed. Either way, they weren't gonna rape anybody.

Standing right next to the client – a tall man in a dark suit, speaking quietly with the DM – was a naked kid maybe nine years old with brown hair buzzed close all over his head (including on top), kinda 'packaged' the same way Roger was, except that the stuff looked really expensive. The cuffs were the right size and glossy. The chains were gold-colored and gleaming.

The mouth gag was held in place with more than just a single plain old strap. The kid's whole head was involved in a sort of harness, with the ball gag on a thin black leather strap running across the mouth, but connected to a big golden circle the size of a keyring over each cheek. From those rings the 'round-the-head strap obviously went. Then there was another golden ring – smaller this time – right between the kid's eyebrows. Leather straps went down on either side from that ring to the cheek rings, while another strap went up from the middle ring over the top of the kid's head, probably to connect with the 'round-the-head strap in back. Another strap went from one cheek ring to the other under the kid's chin, like the strap of a bicycle helmet.

It was odd because it didn't seem to hold the kid's ball gag any better than Roger's one plain strap held the ball gag in Roger's mouth, but what the heck. It looked sexy. It said 'slave!' with a yell, and Roger was appalled by it even though he kinda wondered what it would be like to have something like that on his own head.

The collar was the same government issue thing that Roger and all the rest of the slaves in the complex wore, according to size, and he looked down the naked, golden-brown length of the kid's well-tanned, slender body to see that the boy didn't have any dickie or balls.

Jeez, Louise, did they cut 'em off?

Lots of Roger's clients liked to do what they called 'pillow talk' after doing the sex to him. (Sometimes before and even during the sex, and that last bit was something he was still getting used to.) A few of them had told him about 'body modification' that private owners could do with the slaves they bought.

Government slaves in the comfort complexes – including boys like Roger – were kept 'plain vanilla', with nothing more than the big identification tattoo on the side of your right leg and no more operations than maybe to fix a bad appendix or stuff like that. But private owners could do some really insane stuff to their slaves. One of Roger's clients had pulled up graphic images and even a few short vids on his pad and showed the pictures to Roger, and it had made the boy so scared that he'd started crying.

"Are they gonna do stuff like that to me?" he'd sobbed, pointing to the image of a big boy – maybe eleven? – who was covered in colored tattoos and had jewelry stuck through his titties. The boy's testicle pouch was just plain gone. The boy's penis was stuck in a down-curved steel tube or something, and you could tell that it wouldn't let him have a hard-on. Gosh, it looked awful!

"Only if somebody buys you from the government," the client had said, trying his best to cuddle Roger and calm him down. "And you'd be very expensive. But private owners like to be the first ones to fuck their slaves. They buy a boy like you absolutely virgin. If you were going to be auctioned off to that kind of owner, it would've probably happened before you were even indoctrinated, long they sent you here, understand?"

Now, in front of the DM's check-out desk, Roger looked in sick fascination at the client's slave boy's private zone and then it hit him.

He's a she!

With that short haircut, Roger had been so determined to 'see' a boy that he hadn't gotten his head around the fact that there was a smooth, hairless cunny down there, with a vertical slit but none of the little tag of skin toward the top of it and the kinda pushed-out appearance he'd gotten used to seeing in the older girl-slaves and all of the woman-slaves he'd seen since he got to the complex. The folds of skin on either side of the cleft – the labia majora was what the instruction vids called them – had been pierced with two small gold rings halfway down, and those were connected by a tiny golden padlock. It was obviously a special girl-kind of chastity, but one that the girl could only take off if she got the key. That thought made Roger shudder even as part of his mind noted how pretty it looked.

I mean, let's face it, girls' cunnies were kinda boring compared with a guy's dickie and testicles.

The DM at the desk snapped his fingers to get Roger's attention, shaking his head just a little in disapproval.

"The client will be keeping you for a double session," said the Discipline Master, "and then you'll be spending the night with him. Understand?"

Gagged, Roger couldn't say "Yes, Master!" so he just nodded. Well, this was something new. Roger had done double sessions with some of his clients – morning and afternoon, or afternoon and evening – but were people allowed to stay overnight in the sex rooms? He'd never seen that happen before.

The DM turned back to look at the client. "We don't usually permit overnight use of the facilities," he'd said, smiling, "but in your case, Mr. Chriswell, it's a pleasure to accommodate you. Unfortunately, regulations state that the use of a room comes only incidental to the use of our sex slaves." He nodded at Roger. "But I compliment you on your choice. This one was only recently taken into slavery, but he's a bright and responsive little fellow."

The handsome man nodded. "I'm sure. I hadn't planned on staying overnight anywhere along the way, but when the car broke down near Kingstown and the mechanic couldn't get the part delivered any sooner than tomorrow morning 3;"

The Discipline Master grimaced. "I know. This really is flyover country, isn't it? But you couldn't find a motel or hotel – or even a bed-and-breakfast – anywhere in the county to spend the night in?"

"None that would accept my slave," replied Mr. Chriswell.

"Oh?" The DM arched an eyebrow. "But almost all the places around here have facilities for slaves."

"Separate from the rooms rented to their customers." The man made a face. "And they're most insistent about ensuring that sex slaves be locked away securely throughout one's occupancy. Barbaric."

The DM on duty shrugged. "The people around here cope pretty well with indentured laborers. They're not exposed to the really dangerous ones – the enemy combatants and the violent criminals. We have a few of those in the county, but we restrict them to the barracks on the big farms and down at the mines. We simply don't have too many citizens – or visitors, for that matter – who own personal slaves, and none of those are sex slaves like your little, uh, girl."

Mr. Chriswell blinked. "Be that as it may. I don't allow Julia to leave my presence except under extraordinary circumstances. She was purchased not merely for sexual pleasure but as breeding stock. As soon as she has ripened sufficiently to bear children, I will be siring sons upon her." He glanced at the girl, who regarded him with bright eyes. He sighed. "And at least one daughter. If she behaves herself." Back to the DM: "She's a most persuasive child. Were she any more persuasive – or persistent – I'd have to have her permanently muted."

So tonight Roger wouldn't have to sleep on what he thought of as a 'naptime pad' (like in Kindergarten) on the floor of a cage downstairs, or in one of the boxes in the ready area. There was only one bed in a sex room, though, which meant that Roger would probably be sleeping on the floor in there.

(The stuff he'd gone through in the indoctrination center before Roger had been boxed up and shipped to the comfort complex made it really clear that a slave didn't get to use 'real people' furniture unless he was ordered by a Master to do so, and that always seemed to involve getting the sex done to him.)

The DM turned back to the client. "There's a vidscreen in the comfort room with instructions to access our services, Mr. Chriswell." He smiled. "We don't customarily provide anything like room service, but unless you want to use our refectory, you're going to have to settle for something brought up to you by one of our servitor staff people. We've got shepherd's pie today, and for plain good cooking, it's one of the best items our kitchen offers."

The client smiled in return. "I'll probably go with your recommendation, then. Will they send up servings for three?"

The DM regarded the client with mild surprise, glanced at Roger, then shrugged. "Certainly. But the 3; er, boy 3; is used to slave rations."

"Of course," Mr. Chriswell agreed pleasantly. "So would you please have your servitor bring along a standard slave ration when he delivers what I'll be ordering? If the 3; boy 3; doesn't want to eat what's on the menu, I don't want him going hungry." He then nodded to the girl-slave and despite her manacled wrists she tried to take up the handle of the suitcase-on-rollers thing by her owner's side.

The man clucked distractedly at the inconvenience, then sighed, obviously conveying a mild exasperation about the comfort center rules that required binding sex slaves in wrist and ankle chains, as he reached for the grip. "Room 19?" he inquired of the DM.

"Yes, sir," said the Discipline Master. He smiled at Roger.

"You know the way to Room 19, right?"

Roger nodded. It was one of the bigger, really nice sex rooms, and Roger had been in it only once before. The DM must really like Mr. Chriswell.

"Okay, 6-4-3-9," said the Discipline Master, using the last four digits of Roger's slave number (the way you're supposed to). "Lead the way."

Roger and the girl-slave had to do what the grown-ups called 'the chain-link shuffle' as quickly as they could to get down the corridor, Mr. Chriswell walking calmly behind them. Roger could tell that the girl was trying to race him, and he responded the same as any other little boy naturallly would, by sliding his feet along as fast as he could. It was dumb (because he knew where they were going and she didn't), but it was fun, too, and the client didn't seem to think it was anything to complain about.

Chapter 2

The girl-slave was pretty good at it. She'd probably been a slave for a lot longer than Roger had. As always, Roger wondered how a buttplug felt to a girl. Any kind of exercise with his plug up inside him gave Roger a stiffie that wouldn't quit, and a few times it had even made the boy have his good feelings – what the grown-ups called an 'orgasm' – even though his dickie hadn't been touched by anything at all. Very weird.

During his indocrination, Roger had learned that people had sex parts inside their bodies. The vids he'd been made to watch (and lots of the 'pillow talk' he'd had with the nicer clients) had taught him about the boy-parts and the girl-parts for both kids and grown-ups, so Roger knew that girls didn't have the same kinds of stuff inside them – the stuff that a buttplug rubbed against in his own bottom – that made a boy get an orgasm. So was a girl's buttplug just to keep her bottom open so a grown-up man could put his dickie up there without pushing too hard?

Roger opened the door to Room 19, then stepped aside, bowing the way he'd been taught as the client and the girl-slave walked past him into the room. Lots of things about being a slave had surprised the daylights out of Roger, but one of the – kinda – pleasant parts had been the way the boy had begun to like treating the client Masters in a sort of 'English butler' fashion, quiet and super-polite and really dignified, y'know? Even though he was always bare-butt and had to take grown-up dickies in his mouth and up inside his bottom, the 'butler' stuff made him feel almost grown-up himself. Funny when you thought about it, but nice.

Plenty of Roger's clients had told him to knock that off once they'd gotten him into one of the sex rooms, of course. He'd been told by several of them that most grown-up men wanted a little boy for the sex because they liked little boys.

("Be who you are, baby," one of the men had said to him, smiling and kissing Roger all over the boy's face while his big dickie was going all the way soft up inside Roger's bottom. "Don't let them turn you into a little robot, okay?")

Of course, there were plenty of clients who liked little boy slaves because they could dominate little boy slaves completely, and do really bad things to them. The Discipline Masters hadn't told Roger that they were listening to everything that happened in the sex rooms, and sometimes looking, too. They obviously let the clients get away with lots of nasty stuff (that hurt a boy, or made him super-embarrassed, or grossed you out just to think about), but the one time that two strangers – not 'regular' clients – had Roger and another boy in one of the bigger sex rooms together, and the men did a twisty, horrible, 'crunching' thing to the other slave boy's elbow, making the kid scream in agony, two of the DMs and a grown-up slave worker were in the room almost like magic, and they were on those two big, strong clients like cops in one of those movies Roger had remembered seeing back when he was a real boy and allowed to watch regular vids.

The grown-up slave had been scary. He hadn't said anything to anybody, but he'd taken the bigger, meaner client down to the floor and squooshed him so hard the guy just about puked right then and there. The look in that slave guy's eyes had been so cold and yet so 3; angry 3; that Roger had almost pee'd himself even though the angriness hadn't been aimed at him in any way at all.

Roger had been tied to one of the chairs in the sex room, and he got knocked over when the DMs had grabbed the other guy, but his hurts didn't keep him on rest for more than a couple of days. The other boy (a ten-year-old kid nicknamed Paul-2 because the complex already had a sex-slave named 'Paul') was on rest and recovery for a long time, and even now only regular clients – the nicest ones, who were specially gentle with hurt little boys – got to use him for the sex.

Paul-2 still woke up screaming downstairs when he slept in one of the cages, and that woke up Roger some nights. Probably some of the other slave boys, too.

Every night there was always either a grown-up worker slave or a Discipline Master outside in the cage room, awake or snoozing on a bunk bed next to the desk. Roger had heard one of the DMs call the job 'charge of quarters'. When Roger had been awakened by Paul-2's bad dreams once or twice, he'd seen the quarters guy (no matter who it was) get Paul-2 out of his cage, put the boy on his lap, and cuddle him back to sleep.

A big boy – ten years old – needed cuddling? Sometimes when the morning buzzer went off and all the cages were opening up, Roger had seen Paul-2 getting up from the 'charge of quarters' bunk bed and getting chased off by the DM or the grown-up slave to get ready for the morning session.

Paul-2 seemed to be getting better, though. Could cuddling and having clients do the sex to a boy – doing it nice, and gentle, and careful – actually help him get better?

In Room 19, Mr. Chriswell waited until Roger stepped inside and closed the door behiind him, and then the man took Roger's head gently but firmly between his hands and smiled down into the boy's eyes.

"You have a lot of questions, don't you, little slave?"

Roger started to nod, but realized that slaves weren't allowed to ask questions, and he changed the motion to a headshake.

No, Master, I don't have any questions.

The man laughed. "Good slave. You wonder, but you know not to ask. If the Master wants you to know, you'll be told, right?"

That could be answered with a nod, and the man looked pleased. He hadn't taken his hands off Roger's head, and kept his eyes fixed on those of the gagged and manacled boy.

"I know that you are eight years old," said Mr. Chriswell. "If you were still a free boy, and you had come into my hands, I would rape you. Do you understand?"

Roger felt real fear. Somehow he knew that this man wasn't lying. Ever since pre-school, the teachers in his S.C.A.R.E. classes had warned all the children that there were men – and some ladies, too – who took advantage of their size and strength to catch little kids, to carry them off, to do sex stuff to free boys and girls in spite of the fact that there were plenty of sex slaves for them to use.

Lots of those free children just 3; disappeared. Gone, and nobody found out what had happened to them unless bits of their bodies turned up years later, buried under a building or deep in a hole in the woods or something like that.

Now Roger himself was a sex slave. The government owned Roger, and let grown-ups use him – like lots of other slave kids – for the sex so that grown-ups didn't have to kidnap regular girls and boys to do the sex to them

What's more, Roger knew that as a slave he was really safer than a free kid would be, doing sex with grown-ups. That thing with the two bad strangers had shown Roger that there were Discipline Masters and even grown-up slaves here in the comfort complex who were watching and listening, and they would punish this man – any grown-up – for doing really bad things to Roger, if the man tried.

But that didn't make Roger any less frightened. He knew he was trembling, and he was ashamed by it. He couldn't take his eyes away from Mr. Chriswell's face. He knew somehow that this was a very strong, very cruel man who had done the sex to lots of little boys – regular free boys, too, who were never supposed to get done with the sex – and no matter how many times Roger had been done by the grown-up men and teenagers visiting the complex since Roger had been brought here, none of them (not even those two guys who had busted up Paul-2's elbow) had scared Roger as much as Mr. Chriswell was doing.

"Your rape would be a test," said the man, "to determine whether you were worthy of life in a different kind of slavery, a slavery you would enter without hope of escape, knowing that you would be a slave for the rest of your life, in sexual submission to Masters more cruel and lustful than any you could ever know in a place like this, men who would use your pain and your humiliation and your pleasure to exalt you beyond anything you'd ever imagined. Do you understand?"

Roger didn't, but he knew somehow that what Mr. Chriswell was saying really was true. He didn't want to admit this, but he couldn't help it. Hesitantly, he nodded, feeling the man's hands still very strong, very sure, holding his head.

"But you are a government slave," said Mr. Chriswell, "and we are in a comfort room, and this means 3;" The man paused, smiled. "This means that you are safe, and you know it here –" he caressed Roger's hair "– if not here." He touched the boy's chest with the knuckles of his hand, tenderly, right over Roger's heart.

Mr. Chriswell stepped away from Roger and sat down on one of the four chairs gathered around the big, sturdy table in the part of the room furthest from the bed. None of the sex rooms had windows, but the lighting was almost the same as if there were. Beckoning the girl closer, the client used a keystick to open the fastenings of the chains that held the wrist cuffs connected to the steel collar.

In the complex, none of the sex slaves' chains and manacles were ever locked, not for real. That wasn't needed. None of slaves put here for the working or the sex could ever leave the comfort complex without the DMs' permission because of the alarms and the collar autoshock systems. Go near the perimeter and you got a little warning shock as the DMs on monitor duty were notified where you were. When he'd gotten here, they'd taken Roger out to the boundary and showed him how the shock felt, and that had been really painful. He didn't want to learn what a full shock would do to him. They'd said it would knock down a grown-up man, maybe even knock such a man unconscious.

But the regulations required that sex slaves in the complex be manacled and chained and all the rest, and the slaves obeyed because the DMs were strict about it. They enforced those regulations, and they did it so intimidatingly that the bondage stuff might as well be locked.

For Mr. Chriswell, though, either his sex slave was locked completely and 'for real', or she wasn't. The little bit Roger had seen at the DM's 'checkout desk' told him that the man was used to having his slave girl handle his luggage, and he hadn't liked the fact that she couldn't. The chains and stuff he'd locked her in didn't allow for anything that only looked like bondage.

Sex slaves had to go naked in public, but outside the comfort complexes, they didn't have to be chained as long as they were 'under control'. A regular slave collar and maybe a leash were enough for that.

Back when he was still a real boy, Roger had been required to watch teaching vids in school about the slave laws, and why it was really important for free kids not to be too friendly with slaves – especially sex slaves. When you met them, even if they were walking around with their Masters or their minders in a shopping mall or on the street, you were supposed to stay away. It wasn't polite even to look at them too much.

Of course, nobody in Roger's class had ever figured on becoming a sex slave.

You knew it could happen to you, though. When the government enforced the laws against parents with 'minor children' – kids younger than 21 – if enslavement was a possible sentence for the grown-ups, their kids went into slavery, no exceptions, even if none of the parents did. They lost their children. Forever.

It was supposed to make the punishment for crimes even more horrible, and make people want to obey the law.

(But what did my mom do to break the law? thought the boy. He'd heard the judge read a lot of stuff while the slave cops were stripping his clothes off to make him naked for the collar, but Roger hadn't really understood any of it.)

Except in the big cities, no free children ever expected to see a real sex slave, grown-up or kid. Sure, they were always plenty of them in the local comfort complexes, at least one in every county, but free kids were almost never allowed in any of those places, and the government sex slaves were almost never allowed out. Roger had been told that older boys got special introductions to the local complex just after their sex suppression shots got stopped, but that was a long way away for an eight-year-old kid like Roger.

No, that had been a long way away for Roger. He already knew a lot more about how things went on in a comfort complex than any of his teen-age clients did.

Government sex slaves in the comfort complexes had to be able to take off their chains and get outside in case of a fire or some other kind of disaster. The cages downstairs and the sleeping boxes in the ready area all popped open automatically whenever an alarm bell went off. There were even drills maybe once a month where they made the sex slaves practice what they were supposed to do, like in school.

(One time Roger had to grab a handle on one of the emergency stretcher things to help haul a grown-up slave woman out of the building pretending that she was a client who'd had a heart attack or something. That had been a real hoot, because the bunch of slave boys and slave girls who'd been assigned by the DMs to do the job had been on the verge of breaking up with the giggles all the way to the safety place outside. The DM had quirted every little ass on that detail at least a couple of times that day. The woman slave had been one of the neighboring regular conditioning center's exercise teachers, and even she had trouble keeping a serious expression.)

While Mr. Chriswell unchained his sex slave, Roger was left to stand there – just stand there – watching. The man got the cuffs off the girl's wrists and off her ankles, and then he took her into his lap, facing him, her knees on either side of his waist. Even though Mr. Chriswell was still wearing his nice suit, he looked really handsome. Roger had seen grown-ups doing the sex to girl slaves in the teaching vids, and exactly twice Roger had been taken into a sex room by a pair of clients who'd wanted to share a slave boy and a slave girl in the same session.

Roger had already done the tongue thing to grown-up women clients' cunnies a few times, starting in the indoctrination place with three lady slave cops, one of whom had been really mean to him.

(You could tell that she just plain hated little boys, but so did lots of ladies who taught regular school. Kids could always tell that, too.)

It was a major gross-out for him to get his face pushed into those grown-up cunnies, but not all that scary. Learning how he was supposed to use his fingers in there was almost as bad.

Now, girls were a lot different. It was actually kind of nice when Roger was ordered to lick a girl's little button for the first time to learn how to make her have the good feelings.

Weirdly enough, she'd been a real girl, not a slave. There hadn't been any new-made girl sex slaves in the indoctrination center, and so she'd been volunteered by her mom, who was the sister or cousin of one of the men who worked there. She'd been wearing a kind of bathrobe thing when Roger had gotten shoved into the room with her, and he'd been just plain naked except for his collar and the buttplug they were getting him used to.

Roger had been able to tell right away that she was kinda excited, but he had been blushing, too. She'd been kinda bouncing up and down on her toes, grinning at Roger.

One of the lady slave cops had been in the room for the training, and the woman had told the little girl to take off her robe, he's just a slave, and the girl did.

You didn't get to see many girls bare-naked after you'd gotten into the First Grade and you were old enough to free swim in the regular pool (well, the shallow end) with the big boys in the conditioning center. When kids were really little, nobody expected them to wear bathing suits, and boys and girls mixed all the time, at the beach and in the public pools. Everybody had to wear a swim suit when you went to a waterpark, though, even if it was a 'men-and-boys only' day. Bummer.

But nothing much impressed Roger about the girl except for the fact that she was at least a year older than he was, and that she had pretty nice muscles, especially for a girl. Her brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her eyes were dark and wide as she looked at him.

Jeez, hadn't she ever seen a slave boy before? It really didn't help any that Roger had had a stiffie.

The lady cop had gone "Hemm!" and Roger had remembered that he was supposed to bow to the girl, even though she was naked and just another kid. A real kid was a 'Master' or a 'Mistress', no matter how old. Heck, this was the first real kid Roger had met since he'd gotten slaved.

"You're pretty!" the girl had said, obviously delighted to have a boy she could torment. She'd stepped right up to Roger and ran her fingertips over his face, trying to feel his freckles. Before getting slaved, Roger would've jerked away, because he hated that 'freckle-counting' stuff, but the men working at the indoctrination center had whupped that habit out of him, pretty much.

The girl had felt him all over his shoulders and chest and back, her fingers touching him lightly, and then she'd carefully touched and then took hold of Roger's dickie and testicles, squeezing them just enough to make Roger gasp a little, but not too much.

"Did seeing me make you get your woody?" she'd asked.

"Y-yes, Mistress!"

"Am I pretty?" Then she'd shaken her head. "No, don't answer. You're supposed to say I'm pretty, aren't you?"

"Uh, yes, Mistress." Rogher had hesitated. "But you are nice-looking. You've got good muscles."

"Take him over to the bed, Annalise." It was the slave cop lady, sounding bored. She'd seated herself in a chair where she could see everything, but it had been pretty obvious that she wasn't going to meddle. "This is training, not a play date."

"He's nicer than the ones who did the training on me before," the girl had said, taking Roger's hand with a smile. "C'mon. I've done this with some other brand-new slave boys here. Patrolwoman Santiago said I'd get used to it, even if you are just dirty little slaves, and it's kinda fun."

Roger had blushed even more as the girl had pulled him over to the bed. "I, I took a shower just before they brought me over here, Mistress."

She'd giggled and pushed him to sit down on the bed. "Have you ever done the sex to a girl before?"

That had made Roger glance at the slave cop. "Only with the ladies here, Mistress."

"Oh, yes." The girl had seated herself next to Roger and pushed him over onto his back, runing one hand up and down the length of Roger's body. "I've never done that myself, of course, but we have a kind of a club in my class at the conditioning center, all my girl friends. We do the sex games with each other all the time. Didn't you used to do that with your friends, back when you were a real boy?"

"Yes, Mistress. Oh, Mistress! I'm supposed to be doing the sex for you, not the other way around!"

"Shut up, slave," the lady cop had said.

"Yeah," the girl had added, grinning at Roger. "Shut up. Just for that, I'm gonna kiss you!"

Well, some of the lady slave cops had done that to him already, and while it had been gross, it hadn't been too yucky. Maybe having a girl do it 3;?

Annalise had been not too bad in the kissing, and she'd sure known how to play with a guy's stiffie, hadn't she?

***

What Roger had learned that day – and what continued to prove true when he'd come to the comfort complex and did those sessions with clients who'd also checked out a girl slave to do the sex with – was that really little girls (the ones who hadn't even started to grow boobies) didn't have that nasty smell grown-up women got in their twats, and they didn't get all, uh, juicy down there. And like Annalise, the two girls he'd been used with were actually kinda pretty.

That first time after he'd been remanded to the comfort complex, Roger had done the tongue thing to the girl slave while one of the clients – both of 'em grown-up men – was doing the girl in her bottom. It wasn't very difficult. Roger had sucked a couple of slave boys' dickies while those boys were getting it up inside them, and he'd learned how lots of clients liked that kinda stuff. Besides, who couldn't like doing sex-play with another kid, even if it was with a girl?

Girl sex slaves were lots better than regular girls, in Roger's estimation. Even Annalise. If they were like the two he'd gotten to know (and he was sad to admit that he couldn't remember their numbers), girl slaves weren't whiny or mean or stuck-up, the way girls had always been in school, and if his limited experiences were any indication, you could make a girl sex slave get a tickle-bone that was almost the same as if you were doing it to another boy.

Mr. Chriswell finished unlocking his slave girl's chains and cuffs and just as Roger expected him to take off that funny head harness holding her gag, the man said to Roger – without even looking over his shoulder at the boy – "Take off those toys you're wearing, and put them on the shelf."

Toys? Then Roger realized that the client meant the stuff the grown-up slave had used to 'package' him back in the ready area. Every client in Roger's experience had wanted to do that himself – or herself – as if the slave couldn't. Roger had long since figured that it made a grown-up feel sexy to get a slave boy ready for the sex

Okay, he thought, I can do that.

He did the 'fire drill' routine, unhooking the wrist chains from the collar on either side and then taking off the wrist cuffs. He just undid the cuffs around his ankles. He was careful to put everything neatly on the shelf, thinking about how he might have to grab them again if there was an alarm or something.

"That ridiculous pounch and all the rest of it," said Mr. Chriswell, still not turning around. The man was looking into his slave girl's eyes while he was kind of playing with her head harness. Her hands were at her sides, not moving, but she was looking right back up at him, as if Mr. Chriswell was the most beautiful thing in the world for her.

"All the rest," the man repeated, still not looking away from the girl, as Roger took off the chastity thing.

Well, Roger knew what that meant. He reached around and got the plug out of his bottom, and he put it in the little plastic tray kept on the shelf for that purpose. Last to go was his gag, and Roger worked his jaw a little the way he always did when the red rubber ball came out of his mouth. Not knowing what else to do, he stood by the shelf with his hands behind his back, the way the DMs at the indoctrination center had taught him.

The client had let go of the girl's head without taking off the harness thing or the gag in her mouth, and had turned around so she could help him out of his suit jacket. There was a kind of hanger-stand near the door (one of the things you only found in one of these big, fancy sex rooms), and she draped the coat over the 'shoulders' of that gadget neat as you please. As Mr. Chriswell took off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, the girl slave went down on her knees to undo her owner's shoelaces and pull each shoe off as Mr. Chriswell picked up his foot. Roger was impressed by the way she handled her Master's stuff, even sort of folding each piece of clothing to put it on the stand properly.

Roger had never been that neat when he'd been a regular boy, and he wondered if he could figure out how to do stuff like this for his clients. It would make the 'English butler' game even more fun.

When Mr. Chriswell pulled down his plain white underpants – boxers, Roger noted – to show his dickie and testicles, the boy couldn't help getting a really major stiffie at the sight of what his client was going to do him with. Unlike most clients' things, it was circumcised, which made the head of it seem bigger somehow, and kind of halfway hard. It was maybe more than average thick and long, definitely a 'hurt-you-in-your-bottom' size for a kid Roger's age, even if its owner did you carefully, and somehow Roger was pretty sure that Mr. Chriswell wasn't the kind of client who liked to do little boys carefully.

After the girl had folded her Master's last piece of clothing, she knelt down in front of the man and looked lovingly at that big penis for a long moment before lifting her gaze to regard his face with adoration. Roger had seen stuff like this in the instruction vids, showing him the kinds of things a sex slave should do to make a client feel good and important, but he could tell somehow that the girl wasn't pretending. She really did love Mr. Chriswell. A lot.

More than Roger had ever loved his mom, he realized, and that made him feel kind of bad. What would it be like to have a grown-up you could love like that? There were some clients Roger really liked, because he knew that they liked him – as if he were a real boy, not just for the sex. They were becoming some of his 'regulars', asking for Roger again and again to do the sex to him.

Sure, some of them liked to hurt Roger with the sex. Some of them even liked to tie him up, and do 'torture' to him in the sex, and that wasn't supposed to be fun for a boy, was it?

Except that sometimes it was kind of exciting, and very sexy when Roger had it done to him. Like you couldn't help feeling sexy – even when it really hurt – while a grown-up was doing those tortures to you, could you?

When the instruction vids showed that kind of stuff, it made Roger's dickie go hard and tingly just to watch it, even though some of what he'd watched (not the stuff that had been done to him in the comfort complex so far) was – let's face it – more than a little bit sick.

But it sure made Roger interested in seeing it done to another boy as well as kind of wishing it could be done to him.

Well, it was going to happen to him, eventually.

Roger was going to be a slave boy forever, with the shots and the conditioning and the rest of that stuff keeping him little and 'cute' and exercised so that the grown-ups would like him for the sex. He figured that – eventually – all of the things that grown-ups could ever do to a little boy was gonna get done to him, and almost all of it was going to hurt.

That was why they made you a slave, he thought. So you couldn't say 'No' to the kinds of stuff that hurt you.

This girl slave was something different, though. She had only one Master, only one grown-up who did the sex to her, and unless Mr. Chriswell loaned her out to other people (and he might, Roger figured; parents even treated their own kids like stuff you could lend to other grown-ups lots of the time), she only had to please Mr. Chriswell.

What would that be like? If Mr. Chriswell didn't own any other sex slaves (and Roger had been told that owning just one slave cost a bunch of money), maybe it was as if the girl had her very own grown-up doing the sex to her.

Was that like having a daddy, or – well, more like being married to the man?

Even now – after having been made a sex slave and being used by grown-up women, Roger had a lot of trouble imagining his mom ever having sex. Ever. Even with a grown-up man, much less doing the sex to a little boy slave, the way the lady clients had done it to him.

He tried to picture his mom all naked and with one of those 'strap-on' things pointing out from her cunny, the way some of the woman clients put them on so that they could hurt a boy up inside his bottom the same way men liked to do. Too weird!

Roger watched as Mr. Chriswell took the girl slave's head between his hands again and pulled her toward him. She kind of got up taller on her knees, still looking up at Mr. Chriswell, and the man's penis touched her face. It was almost all the way hard now, and Roger looked at it with the envy any little boy might feel, kind of aching inside to know that he was never going to be allowed to grow up and have a penis that big and strong.

It wasn't as if Roger hadn't thought about grown-up dickies until that day in the courtroom when the judge had made him a slave. Ever since he could remember, Roger had played dickies with boys his own age and a little older. What free kids didn't? They'd even played 'slave boy' games, pretending to be sex slaves, or grown-ups doing stuff to sex slaves.

Well, what they'd thought was the stuff grown-ups did to sex slaves. Roger had learned just how much regular little boys didn't know about slave sex.

And wouldn't it be nice to get a regular kid into the comfort complex and teach him all about what happens in slave boy sex?

That'd make a free boy think about slaves a lot different, wouldn't it?

Mr. Chriswell was doing sex to his girl slave in a way that regular kids had probably never thought about, rubbing his big penis against her face, the tip of it bumping over the straps of her head harness, pushing gently into each of her closed eyes, her arms dangling down on either side, letting him do whatever he wanted to do.

Roger had had grown-ups do stuff like this to him, and while he didn't always like it (when they did it after they'd put their sperms inside his bottom – even though Roger always kept himself clean inside with the enemas – it was definitely kinda gross, and he was always glad to get in the shower later), he had to admit that it was very sexy.

The girl couldn't suck her owner's penis because of the gag in her mouth, but you could tell somehow that she really wanted to do that for him.

Chapter 3

When the slave cops had taken Roger from the courtroom – with nothing on but his slave collar – and they'd gotten him to the indoctrination center, he had been just about 'cried out' completely, and he'd walked between them to the door of the big building without protesting or fighting. The two policemen had played with Roger's penis and testicles before they'd loaded him into their patrol car, smiling at him kinda nasty, and their hands had felt him all over his naked body, including all around and even a little bit in his bottom.

Roger had tried to pretend kind of like he was in the big area in front of the swimming pool at the conditioning center – where almost all the boys always went in bare – and some of the older boys were playing 'grab-ass' the way they sometimes did to the little guys. That made it sort of okay for his dickie to get hard. Even though he was awfully scared of the way the men were doing this stuff to him, he didn't try to fight them or get away unless they pinched him or squeezed his balls some to make him yelp.

I'm a slave boy now, he'd thought. This has gotta be part of what grown-up men are supposed to do to a slave boy for the sex.

He'd known that there had to be lots more to being a sex slave, but he wasn't sure what all of it would be.

When he was walked into the indoctrination center, he started right away to learn. There was somebody in a uniform that looked a lot like the slave cops' but different, and that man was upset at the way Roger had been brought in.

"They're supposed to be manacled, gagged, pouched and plugged for transport," the man said. "At the very least. What gives?"

"This one is fresh-caught," said the older slave cop. "Didn't you get the notification?"

The man regarded Roger, then frowned down at the pad in his hand, using his fingertip to shift stuff around and open it up. At length, his eyebrows went up and he looked at Roger a lot harder.

"He was supposed to be delivered to that new center over in Barnesville, the private place just opened by Servile Specialties. You've got a lot more time on the road before you're done today, fellas."

"Barnesville?" exclaimed the younger cop. That's at least twelve hours' drive!"

The senior Slave Police officer shook his head. "The documents we were given at the court house –" he held up his clipboard and the papers on it "– state that the subject is consigned to this facility for processing, and then assignment to a comfort complex according to Authority policy. If long-range transport was supposed to be ordered, the court wouldn't have assigned the detail to us. We're short on staff down at the county barracks, and the watch boss won't clear us for an overnight trip to Barnesville." His expression was set. "I'm sure of that. You want to call him and find out for yourself?"

Looking from the papers – all signed and sealed and very official – to his pad, then back again, the indoctrination center man grimaced and shrugged.

"All right," he said. "We've been getting almost all the intake from the county courthouse here since the doors opened here, and I suppose Judge Relefer ruled on long habit that the kid was to be delivered here instead of where the Slave Authority planned to put him." The man looked at Roger yet again. "We can certainly accommodate the Judge this one time. I'll have a talk with his clerk on Monday."

The man signed several places on the papers, took a few of them to keep, and handed the clipboard back to the older slave cop.

The younger man had grinned at Roger as he and his partner walked away, and it hadn't been a nice grin at all.

"Go to the vidscreen and have dinner sent up," commanded Mr. Chriswell, not looking away from his girl slave's face.

"Y-yes, Master," replied Roger, and he walked over to the built-in screen.

"Call me 'Sir'," Mr. Chriswell ordered, still not looking at the boy. "The word 'Master' carries the meaning of ownership, and I do not own you." He arched an eyebrow at Roger. "Understand?"

"Yes 3; sir." Roger continued to the vidscreen, touched it into terminal mode, and carefully spelled in the order for three servings of shepherd's pie.

"And one slave ration," Mr. Chriswell reminded him.

"Yes, sir." Roger added it. "Do you want anything to drink, sir?"

The man glanced at the small refrigerator near the little bar in one corner of the room. "Milk for my slave," he said. "Can you digest milk, boy?"

"Sir?" Then Roger understood. "Yes, sir."

"Milk for both of you, then."

Roger didn't particularly like plain milk, but that didn't matter to a slave.

Mr. Chriswell let go of the girl, took her by the arms, and raised her to her feet. "A brandy," he ordered. "Whatever looks best."

The girl nodded, went to the bar, and explored, coming up with a very small bottle. She peered at the label, gave it a kinda disgusted look, but shrugged. She opened the bottle and poured entirely into a glass like an open-topped bubble with a stem and a base. Roger had never seen one of them before, and wondered if they were for stuff like champagne, too.

The girl – and Roger remembered that her owner called her 'Julia' – brought the glass to Mr. Chriswell and held it up with both hands to offer it to the man.

She gets to keep her name? the boy wondered.

"6-4-3-9," muttered the man, gazing down at one of the papers he'd received. The two slave cops had left, and Roger didn't know what he was supposed to do. He stood there in the room while the indoctrination center officer leaned his butt against the desk and flipped through the pages. The man looked at him. "Do you know anything about being a slave?"

Roger shook his head. "N-no, sir. Not really."

The man sighed. "I thought as much." He looked the naked, collared little boy over carefully, tilting his head to one side, then the other. "It says here that they performed a medical examination on you at the courthouse. I can imagine what that was like. Do you need to urinate?"

Bewildered, Roger just looked at the man.

"Do you need to pee, little boy?"

"Uh, yes, sir." Roger knew he'd have to go pretty soon.

"Come with me, then." The man led the way through a door and down a hall to a room with counters and cabinets and the kinds of tables you saw in a doctor's office, one of them about knee-high to a grown-up, the other about the same height as a regular kitchen table. It was pretty much like the place in the basement of the courthouse where Roger had been poked and prodded and looked at by a lady doctor. The indoctrination center man gave Roger a little plastic cup, pointed through a side door to a bathroom, and didn't have to say a word.

Pee in the cup, kid.

He was self-conscious under the stranger's regard, but Roger had gone through this kind of thing in school and in doctors' offices before. He drew down his stiffie with one hand, held the cup with the other, and thought about cold running water. It worked, and after he finished emptying his bladder, he looked to the man, the cup full of warm pee.

The man handed Roger a lid, and the boy screwed it on to make sure nothing spilled.

"Have you ever been cleansed?" asked the man.

Again, Roger's response was an expression of bewilderment.

"Civilians!" the man muttered. "Have you ever been given an enema, boy?"

Roger's eyes went wide. "Yes, sir! But not for a long, long time. When I was little 3;"

There was a curt nod. "I know. But not in the past year or more, right?"

Roger shook his head.

"Well, that's how we'll start. The doctor at the court house performed a digital rectal examination and made no note of abnormalities, so 3;"

"Sir?"

The man arched an eyebrow.

"W-what's a digital, uh, something? What you said."

Another sigh. "Eight years old and never taught bodily hygiene." He focused a frown on the child. "She put her finger in your bottom and felt around inside. Understand?"

"Yes, sir." Roger winced slightly as he remembered the finger. Doctors always wanted to do stuff like that to a guy. Really embarrassing, not to mention hurting.

"A child who serves the sexual pleasure of men must always be prepared to accept a man's penis inside his – or her – anus. To do this properly, you must be cleansed to prevent soiling, and kept open so that you may be penetrated without tearing your flesh. Enemas are used for cleansing, and obturators are used to keep your bottom properly dilated."

"I gotta get an enema?" asked Roger, appalled.

The bit about getting a grown-up penis in your bottom was scary enough, but he'd heard about it plenty from kids in school who'd watched porn vids with little boys in them, and knowing that it was going to happen to him gave him a sick, terrified feeling in the pit of his stomach. But the idea of getting an enema was just 3; weird!

"I'll perform your cleansing now, but you'll learn to do it yourself. Conscientiously."

It couldn't be good for Roger's conscience to get an enema, could it?

What the heck?

"But I'm not sick, mister. I went number-two just this morning."

The man sighed. "Free children aren't taught anything, are they?"

Roger didn't have an answer to that. The man had taken Roger by the arm – firmly enough to hurt a little – and hauled him out of the little lavatory and into another, bigger, room not far away, all tiled up the walls like the showers in the conditioning center. There were even drains on the tile floor and shower heads on the walls, but on shining metal hoses like the ones in the bathroom back home.

Well, back in the place that had used to be Roger's home.

The tile floor had been cold under Roger's bare feet as he was more or less dragged to a kind of big white chair in one corner of the shower room (or whatever it was), but with the seat cut out like the seat of a toilet, and a kind of big funnel right underneath leading down into what had to be a drain in the floor. The chair had a back higher than Roger's head, and arms on either side, like an easy chair. The man picked Roger up and put him into the chair, which was too high for even grown-up's feet to reach the floor.

The boy had almost panicked when he realized that the man was strapping him down on the chair. The first ones went around Roger's thighs, just above the knees, to hold his legs spread apart. Then others had been fastened around his ankles. He'd just sat there, staring with wide eyes as the man did this to him, his hands tight on either arm of the chair even before the straps there went around his wrists.

The last one had gone around Roger's chest, all of it leaving him completely helpless, unable to get away from whatever the man wanted to do to him. That was when the man did something that froze Roger with terror. Taking a little key out of the breast pocket of his uniform, the man unlocked Roger's slave collar.

Roger had been taught in school that once a slave collar goes on, it stays on, like, forever. Slaves have to sleep with them on, get washed with them on, do everything with the special heavy government stainless steeel collars around their necks. You never saw a slave without a collar.

And wasn't Roger a slave now?

The man had brought the opened collar – it had hinges on one side that you couldn't see when it was closed, and square 'teeth' along each edge of the open part – over to a counter across the room, and it went into a complicated-looking machine that was obviously designed to accept it. The man put little pads on wires on several spots, and they stuck where he put them. Some buttons were pushed, and a small vid screen showed stuff that Roger couldn't make out from where he sat.

When the man came back, Roger's look of anxious curiosity had evoked an explanation.

"Pulling up the information from your collar, checking it against the records." He smiled. "Making sure that you're you, 6-4-3-9."

"S-sir?"

"The last four digits of your inventory number, boy. 6-4-3-9. Memorize it. It's how you'll be known from now on."

"But, but I have a name, mister!"

The man laughed. "Your mother gave you a name, boy, but you don't belong to your mother anymore. You belong to the Slave Authority, and the Authority numbers its property. Forget your name. Remember your number. 6-4-3-9."

Roger was crying now, and he could neither help it nor even wipe away the tears. He didn't want to have his name taken away. He didn't want to be sitting here, utterly naked and strapped down in this big chair, in front of a strange, big, strong grown-up man, who was telling him that he was just a number, and not a real boy anymore.

And then suddenly he'd thought about Pinocchio in the old story, and he understood now how important it had been for Pinocchio to become a real boy.

Roger had been a real boy, and now he wasn't. Not anymore.

The man was touching Roger, holding the boy's head firmly, rubbing away the tears with the tips of both his thumbs looking into the new-made slave's eyes. There was a tissue from somewhere, and the man had held it to let Roger blow his nose, wiping the boy's face perfunctorily.

"Just getting to you now, isn't it?" the man had asked. He'd smiled, reaching down to gather up the boy's hairless hard-on, playing with it slowly and possessively. "I love watching it happen to a little one like you, that first moment when you realize that you really are a slave, that there's nothing you can do to get away. It's not a game, kid. It's here and now, every minute, every day, and all you can do is give up. Isn't that great?"

Roger had shaken his head just a little, gazing up at the man's face in despair.

"Whoever you used to be," the man had continued, "that boy is dead. All you have now is what you are, with an inventory number ending in 6-4-3-9, and the slave authority is going to use you to satisfy the sexual desires of the free citizens who enjoy pretty little ones like you. Understand?"

"Y-yes, sir," Roger had whispered, barely able to believe he was saying it. He was dead. Really, really dead. So how come he was still breathing, still feeling things, still thinking?

Why, because a slave boy had to do all those things to, to 3; He swallowed hard, looking into the man's eyes. To have the sex done to him.

Roger's dickie had never gotten soft. Not for an instant, not since the slave cops had brought him to this place, not since he had pee'd into the cup and then into the toilet, not since he'd been strapped down on this big chair thing. He was ashamed of his stiffie, wanted to cover it, to keep the man from seeing it, because he sensed somehow that it was wrong for him to have a stiffie in the presence of this stranger, with what this man was doing to him, but he couldn't help it!

I've got sex feelings because of what's happening to me, he thought. Sex feelings because I'm becoming a slave? Is that what it means to be a slave boy?

Then there had been something down inside Roger that rebelled. He hadn't thought that he was letting the rebellion show in his eyes, but that part of him had known somehow that any boy – free or slave – would feel the way he was feeling right now, terrified and helples and sexy. This man, this place, were supposed to do that to a boy who couldn't do anything to get away.

My name is Roger! he'd thought furiously, angry at the man and everything that was happening to him, and he'd been angry when the man had pushed the nozzle up inside his bottom to inflate the balloon around the base of the nozzle to plug up his bottom – it hurt! - and hold the enema solution up inside him.

His belly blowing up like a baloon filled with water, cramping and sobbing and unable to get away, Roger had suffered through enema after enema, until the man was satisfied that nothing except the clear solution was coming out of the boy's bottom.

Mr. Chriswell tasted the brandy, made a kind of a face (not quite 'Yuck!' but a face for sure), and sat down on the little two-seat sofa that only a big sex room like number 19 had. Without being ordered, the girl slave sat down on the floor to lean against her owner's knee, gazing up at him, and with the hand that wasn't holding the funny-looking glass Mr. Chriswell ran his fingers over Julia's head, kind of playing with the straps and metal bits of the sexy harness that held her gag in place.

After using the vidscreen to send the order to the refectory, Roger hadn't known what to do with himself. He figured that he couldn't do too much wrong if he kept on playing the 'English butler' game, so he just stood next to the vidscreen facing Mr. Chriswell with his hands behind his back again, watching the man and wondering what he was going to want next.

When he heard a soft ding! and a metal-on-metal sliding sound from the back wall of the room, Roger turned to see part of that wall drop back and move to one side, revealing the hidden doorway that led into the service corridor.

All of the sex rooms had these doorways, but the clients almost never got to see them. Roger kind of liked the way that the service corridors were real, honest-to-gosh secret passages. The DMs and the grown-up worker slaves and the sex slaves all knew about them, of course. It was how the sex rooms got cleaned up and re-stocked, and a lot of the time it was how a sex slave was brought back to the ready room or down to the quarters after you'd done a session with your client.

Roger had learned that the sex got the clients hot and sweaty (not to mention the sperm stuff that the men always squirted), and they almost always showered in the little bathroom at the back of every sex room before they got dressed to leave. The clients were supposed to let a slave clean up afterwards, too, and lots of Roger's clients liked to do the showering together as another fun part of the sex session.

Sometimes the shower was the sex session. There were shiny steel bars on the walls, and places down lower where you could put your feet to get up high enough, and Roger had learned that there were ways to get a grown-up's dickie up into a boy's bottom that didn't need a bed to lie down on, though getting it done like that left a kid's legs all weak and quivery afterwards.

Just plain showering with a big, strong grown-up man was really nice, even if there wasn't any sex stuff involved. What kind of little boy didn't like that?

There were lots of times, though, when the clients would just leave a slave boy in the room when they went away, mostly because sometimes you just fell asleep after getting the sex done to you a bunch of times, and the client was nice enough to not wake you up – or just didn't care.

(Though sometimes it was because the client had tied you up for the sex, and didn't let you loose after doing it to you, which was a pretty mean trick to pull. It made you especially grateful to have one of the worker slaves come in through the hidden doorways to get you out of those knots and straps and stuff.)

This time the door opened for a worker slave, and Roger felt his heart beating really fast when he rcognized the man who had helped to save him and Paul-2 from the two strangers who had hurt the older boy so badly. The man smiled a little at Roger as he handed the boy the first dinner tray, with a big covered plate and a fork and spoon and a smaller bowl with a lid on it.

The worker slave didn't come into the sex room, but gave each tray to Roger to set on the table, one at a time, then handed the boy a boxy insulated cooler of some kind. It was heavy – with frozen gelpacks, he learned when he later opened it – and held two small bottles of milk and a selection of what had to be chilled desserts in cups with lids.

Even though he was sitting on the little couch without any clothes on, Mr. Chriswell nodded with perfect dignity to the worker slave, who nodded silently in return, and stepped back from the doorway to let the panel slide into the opening again.

Only then did Mr. Chriswell get up and go to the table and sit down in one of the chairs. Julia followed him, and stood patiently as he took her head harness off. He ran his fingers all over the girl's head and face, touching the marks the straps and rings had left, and Roger saw the girl slave close her eyes and sigh with what looked like real happiness at how it felt.

"Sit," commanded Mr. Chriswell, indicating the chair to his left. Then the man turned to Roger. "You, sit there." He nodded at the place across the table from his own tray. Roger nodded and obeyed.

Roger noticed that the girl slave sat kind of nervously, and he wondered if she wasn't used to sitting on 'real people' furniture. Slaves weren't allowed to do that unless a Master ordered them, and when he sat down in his own chair Roger felt kind of uneasy about it.

He'd sat on client's knees when they were in chairs like these, or in their laps, of course. For cuddling, too, not just the sex. But to sit on a chair like this? He couldn't remember when.

There was a sort of pained expression on Julia's face, and then Roger realized that Mr. Chriswell hadn't taken out her buttplug, which had to be pushing up inside her whenever she put her weight on it.

The man drew one of the trays across the table to put it in front of Roger, and shifted another so that it was squarely in front of his slave. The other he adjusted before himself. He looked at Roger.

"Fetch the milk out of the cooler," he commanded.

"Yes, sir," responded Roger, who got up, got out the two little bottles of milk, and a pair of ceramic cups like coffee mugs without handles. Without asking, Roger set one of the cups next to the girl's tray, and began pouring, glancing at her to see her nod permission to quit pouring.

"Would you like some, sir?" Then Roger realized that this initiative – an elementary politeness inculcated in free children – was forbidden to a sex slave. He blushed a little in embarrassment, but Mr.Chriswell didn't choose to be strict about it.

"No, thank you. I would like a cup of cold water. Is there ice in the freezer?" He nodded toward the bar, which had a small built-in refrigerator.

"Yes, sir," replied Roger. Most of the sex rooms didn't have bars or refrigerators or even big tables like this one did, but he'd been in Room 19 and others like it, and knew that there was a little ice machine in the 'fridge. He got up and went to the bar to find a glass, fill it halfway with ice, and pour it full of bottled water. Bringing it back to Mr.Chriswell, Roger got a "Thank you," and glance at the boy's dickie, which gone soft.

"You're welcome, sir," said Roger, and he felt his face go warm with a real blush as his dickie became a stiffie again.

Mr. Chriswell silently indicated that Roger should resume his seat, and the boy obeyed. "I'm pleased that you're a healthy, normal boy," said the man. "Please begin, both of you."

"Yes, Master," said the girl, speaking for the first time. Roger watched her lift the lids off her dishes on the tray and set them aside, and he copied her. The only thing under each big cover was a kind of boat-shaped casserole dish, full to the brim – and then some – with kind of toasted crust of something that would otherwise be white. Was 'shepherd's pie' an honest-for-real pie, like an apple pie?

Mr. Chriswell had dug into his serving and was inspecting a forkful of stuff with a sniff. "Beef," said the man, sounding disappointed. "One might hope for lamb, but 3;" He shrugged, and dug in.

When Roger got his fork into his own dish, he realized that the 'crust' was made of mashed potatoes, which he'd always liked, and underneath was a kind of beef stew, very thick, with identifiable bits of vegetables, including carrots and celery and even little whole onions – thoroughly cooked and therefore not 'hot' – small enough to take at a single bite.

Roger had been on slave rations just about ever since his mom's business had gone bust and the judge had the men make him naked and put the collar around his neck, so there were flavors in this stew stuff that he'd kind of forgotten, including a lot more salt than he was used to now. He reached for his cup and took a small sip, not wanting to get a milk mustache. When he saw Julia lift the lid off her small side dish, he was pleased to see that it was a green salad, which was something else he hadn't eaten since he'd been a real boy.

His mom had always been after him to eat his vegetables, and now – when she was who-knows-where (a slave herself, maybe) – that lettuce and stuff looked pretty good. Julia had gotten the packet of dressing, opened it, and was drizzling it on her own salad like an expert.

Roger had to use his teeth to get the corner torn off, but he followed her example, getting the mixture widely and carefully applied all over the greens.

For the first time since he'd been made a slave, Roger felt envy for a girl. Julia was so calm, so confident, so capable, that she made Roger feel kind of stupid. In the short time that he'd been a sex slave, Roger had had clients who had come to the center in pairs, and either each had gotten a slave at the 'checkout desk' to share a sex room and both the kids (in what he'd learned was called a 'four-way'), or the two of them had shared Roger, both of them doing the sex to him. He figured that this was called a 'three-way'.

The 'four-way' sessions were the only times when Roger had encountered girl slaves – two of them, in just one session apiece – and he got to taste little-girl cunny (which was a lot nicer than woman-cunny) both times.

In his limited experience, Roger had noted that lots of the clients who took out two sex slaves together – those two rotten-mean-bad strangers excepted – liked to have the kids do the sex to each other, too, as best a boy could do it without a big dickie to push up inside somebody. It was some kind of turn-on for the grown-ups.

Mostly, of course, that kid sex was just the same kind of naughty stuff that Roger had done with his friends whenever their parents and other grown-ups weren't watching, but it got done with lots more understanding about how to make it really sexy and have the other guy go crazy with the good feelings.

Roger nowadays looked back on those 'naughty stuff' sessions back home to think about how often he and his friends had been just almost all the way to the good feelings but had quit too soon. Boy, had that been mega-stupid!

The dinner was very good, mostly because it was very different from the slave rations, which were made in some kind of factory and came to the comfort center in standard packages that had color-coded labels. Roger liked some of them – the orange and the green especially – and had to choke down a few of the others, especially the blue one. Whatever they gave you, though, you had to eat it.

It was – yuck! – good for you.

When he'd looked in the cooler, Roger had seen that the slave ration was a red one, which was kind of halfway decent, but this shepherd's pie thing – and the salad! – was a real treat. Roger had to watch the client and the slave girl to make sure he didn't gobble it up like a pig. Both of them were very good with their table manners, and Roger was pretty sure that the girl had learned hers from her owner.

What must it be like to have just one Master? he wondered. A private owner could do anything he wanted to his sex slave – Roger remembered those pictures – and that was really frightening to think about. But if you were owned by just one man, wouldn't he treat you kind of special, and take care of you, and teach you stuff? Roger could tell that Julia was treated special by Mr. Chriswell, and she wasn't stuck in a comfort complex all the time.

Roger realized that he missed the outside world, where he'd been a real boy. He even missed school a little, though the conditioning center teaching sessions every other morning were an awful lot like school. Just without clothes, no talking, and no recess.

"You have been here for only a short time," said Mr. Chriswell to Roger. It wasn't a question, was it? But he obviously expected an answer.

"Yes, sir," Roger replied.

The man nodded, continuing decorously to eat. "These are your first experiences of sexual surrender to the pleasure of men." He looked directly into Roger's eyes. "Do you enjoy it?"

Roger swallowed what was in his mouth, blinked, and hoped he wasn't blushing. "Some of it, sir."

The man gave him a small smile. "All boys do," he observed. "Even the pain, the shame, and yielding your will to the desires of others. Every child is born to submit, no matter how much he – or she – might resent the violation to be suffered. You are still negotiating your surrender, but eventually it will be absolute, and you will come to love it."

I will? Roger looked at Mr. Chriswell, took another half-a-forkful of the shepherd's pie, and put it into his mouth. He was afraid – really afraid – that the man was right. Would there be anything left of him when that happened, or would he just be '6-4-3-9' and nothing else?

"I died when they put this collar on me, sir." Roger didn't even realize that he was going to say that until he'd said it. But he kept on with it. "They told me that at the indoctrination center. I still feel stuff. I still walk around and see and hear – " he gave a very small smile "– and eat, but who I used to be, the boy I used to be 3; He's dead, sir. Whatever happens to me now 3; doesn't count, does it, sir? You can do the sex to a dead boy, but there's no real boy here to feel the sex. Just a slave."

Mr. Chriswell's smile was real now. "And you're only eight years old? Amazing. More than ever, you make me wish that I had encountered you before they had taken you from the life that had made you who you were. I would have brought you into slavery properly, and you would have received that gift with all your heart." He thought for a moment, then speared his fork into his salad decisively and tucked the greenery into his mouth, his eyes still smiling as he looked at Roger.

Roger looked puzzlement at the man. "How could you do that? Only the government can make somebody a slave."

Mr. Chriswell swallowed his salad, shaking his head. "Only the government can make someone a slave for all the world to see." He smiled. "Only the government can make you legally a slave. You would have given yourself into slavery – real slavery – of your own choice."

His mouth slightly open, his eyes wide, Roger slowly shook his head just the teensiest bit. I wouldn't! he thought. Then he thought again, looking at the client's calm, confident, controlled expression.

Or would I?

Chapter 4

Roger noticed that the slave girl had put down her fork and was quietly putting the cover back over the plate on which her casserole dish sat. She'd only finished about half of the shepherd's pie, as neatly as if she'd cut it down the middle beforehand. The boy looked up at Mr. Chriswell.

"It's an adult portion," said the man. "If you can't finish it – and after some months on those slave rations, I'm surprised you've managed with real food as well as you've done – simply cover your plate as Julia has done, and set it aside. There's a heat ballast built into your tray directly underneath the plate, and it should keep warm for some time."

Heat ballast? Roger lifted one edge of his plate just a little, and saw that the tray had a kind of big round flat bump that fit into the hollow underside of the dish so that when you tried to slide the plate along the tray, it wouldn't go. And it kept the food warm? Now, that was a pretty neat idea. Happily, he put the cover over his own casserole dish. He'd been afraid that the client would get mad at him for not being able to eat even as much of the dinner portion as Julia had done.

Mom always yelled at me to eat everything on my plate. He flashed a little grateful smile at Mr. Chriswell. The man seemed to understand slaves a lot better than most clients.

Or did he just understand kids a lot better than most grown-ups?

Seeing Julia continuing with her salad, Roger felt free to finish his own, which he was kinda surprised to note that he really liked. He hadn't enjoyed salads back when he'd been a real boy.

Mr. Chriswell had eaten all of the food on his own tray, and was watching the children with a mild expression on his face. "I think we'll let dessert wait a bit. Julia, wash your face and hands."

"Yes, Master." The girl smiled and got to her feet with alacrity, going into the bathroom without bothering to close the sliding door.

Roger had swallowed the last of his salad, including all the litle bits, leaving nothing in the bowl. Mr. Chriswell nodded at him. "Did you enjoy your meal?"

"Yes, sir." The boy nodded. "Thank you."

The client took a sip of his brandy. "I've tasted slave rations," he said, and shrugged. "Some of them aren't too bad, but I can see how they would get 3; boring pretty quickly. The blue ration –" he made a face, and took another sip of his brandy "– I swear was developed as a punishment."

Roger grinned. "Yes, sir. Maybe it was!"

"Endurable but joyless." Mr. Chriswell fixed Roger in his gaze. "Is that what sex has become for you, boy? Endurable but joyless?"

"S-sir?"

"Do you find any happiness in the way people have been using you here?"

Roger felt his face go hot, and he looked down at his tray in embarrassment.

"Answer me, slave."

Not wanting to cry, but blinking back tears as he looked up again, Roger replied: "Yes, sir. Sometimes. N-not most of the time."

The man said nothing, simply looking at the boy. Roger realized that he had to say something more.

"The sex stuff isn't bad just because they, uh, hurt me when they do it to me –" he felt his face getting hot with embarrassment "– 'cause it always hurts, some, when they go up in my bottom, y'know? But when I can tell they don't really care about me. Like I'm just something for them to use."

Mr. Chriswell chuckled. "That's what you are, boy. A slave – especially a sex slave – is a thing, not a person. They taught you that in indoctrination, didn't they?"

Miserably, Roger nodded. "Yes, sir. I know that. But some of the clients are nice to me. I can tell that they don't think I'm just a 'thing' for them to do the sex to." He blinked. "When they hold me, and kiss me, and stuff, it's not just for the sex. That's 3; nice."

"I'm sure." Mr. Chriswell slid all three of the trays, one after the other, to the unoccupied side of the big square table, settling them neatly in place, and pushed his chair back, turning it away from the table a bit, and indicated with two very confident gestures that Roger should stand and come to him.

As the slave stood close before him, gazing directly at the client's eyes, the man took the child by the shoulder on the left and by the hip on the right, gazing at Roger's pale, freckled face. Roger's little penis started to stiffen the moment the hands settled on his body, and he shuddered as he felt their strength.

"Kneel."

Roger went down on his knees between the client's feet, sighing just a little. He balanced himself carefully, not touching the man, his eyes fixed on the big, visibly hardening grown-up dickie. He thought it looked really 3; menacing 3; somehow, even though it was just about average in length and thickness.

The boy honestly couldn't remember if he'd ever seen a grown-up 'cut' dickie that had gone all the way stiff before he got slaved. Sure, there were always a few boys in the swimming pools at the conditioning center back home who'd been 'cut', and sometimes they got hard-ons in the showers or in front of the lockers, but they were only other kids.

You thought about what had been done to them when they were babies (most of the 'cut' kids seemed to like showing their dickies off, because there weren't many of them in any class) and it definitely had creeped Roger out, but he was much older and more sophisticated now. Not only a whole eight years old, but a totally indoctinated sex slave who'd touched and rubbed and suckled all kinds of grown-up dickies, and gotten them in his bottom, too.

Still not touching the man – because Roger had been told that clients liked to be in control of a sex slave, and a guy wasn't supposed to show 'initiative' unless the Master made it pretty clear that he wanted stuff like that – the boy assessed the quality of the big, straight grown-up dickie pointing at him. It didn't curve hardly at all, which made it more handsome to Roger's way of thinking, and the velvety skin gathered around the 'neck' of it showed that if it'd been soft, there would be some of that skin partway covering the crown. He breathed in the smell of it, which was clean but definitely a little sweaty and very grown-up.

Really sexy, too. Well, heck. Had he ever seen a single grown-up dickie that hadn't smelled sexy? Even the ones that were kinda grungy?

When Mr. Chriswell took Roger's head between his hands again, the boy figured that his client was going to pull him down to suck on that big dickie, and he licked his lips nervously. Roger had never gone from eating – and that had always been just slave rations – to sucking on a dickie. In his experience, most grown-ups liked to shove their dickies down a guy's throat, and at the best of times it made you gag.

Jeez, am I gonna throw up? The first real food I've had in, like, ages, and he's gonna make me puke?

Maybe it's better to be dead. Life sure isn't fair.

But Mr. Chriswell held Roger's head up, looking down at the boy's face, not pulling Roger down to do the sucking. He felt the tips of the man's thumbs lightly but firmly rubbing over his cheekbones and over the bridge of his nose, like he was feeling the freckles there.

Roger had never liked having freckles. Every now and then he looked at them in the mirror, but mostly he didn't think about them except at times like these. Ever since he'd been slaved, there had been clients who wanted to touch them, on his face and on his shoulders and on his back. Just like when he'd been little, people seemed to think that his freckles were cute somehow.

Yeesh.

"You're a very beautiful boy," said Mr. Chriswell. The man smiled a little. "Contrary to the people at the indoctination center, you aren't dead. You feel everything. You're very much alive. You have hope, you can learn, and you are learning every day."

Yeah. I'm learning how to suck grown-up dickie!

Well, no, maybe not. Roger thought that he'd already gotten pretty good at sucking grown-up penis, which was definitely more than just a little different from sucking boy-dickie. For one thing, boys on their growth-suppression shots didn't squirt the sperms in your mouth, or all over your face.

But how hard was it to learn that kind of thing, especially for a boy, who had a dickie of his own? Now, girls had to have a problem with it, right?

It made Roger wonder why real boys weren't allowed to do sex stuff with grown-up men.

Or women, either, of course. But who the heck wanted to do sex with women? He sure didn't, and Roger had done the sex with grown-up ladies, both in the indoctrination center and in the comfort complex.

Roger still hadn't been able to figure out why grown-up men would want to do the sex inside those big, sloppy, smelly twats, but if that's how babies had to get made, right?

When Roger had been a real boy, the other guys in school and at the conditioning center had all been interested in how the grown-ups did the sex to slave boys. His mom had blocked the 'Net in their house, but every kid had a pad, and some of the guys in school had hacked past the 'nanny' programs to get vids that were supposed to be adults-only.

All kinds, Roger had heard. The older guys – the fourth- and fifth-graders especially – had just naturally looked for sex vids with boy slaves in them, and they'd downloaded plenty of shots and clips from those vids to their pads.

They seemed to have some kind of a running contest to see who could bring in the most weird or scary or, like, disgusting images. Except for a couple of times, though – and then only for a couple of seconds, darnit! – Roger and the other guys in his class hadn't been given a chance to look. The big guys had said that 'little' kids might tell the teachers or their parents, but Roger figured that it was because the older boys were just being really selfish.

This was especially galling when you thought about it. With the sexual development (and growth) suppression shots, the boys in all the upper grades weren't really much bigger than first- and second-graders.

If you got the boys and the girls in those upper grades together (which didn't happen much, 'cause after First Grade, boys and girls never had classes together), the girls towered over the boys who were the same age. That way, boys couldn't beat up on girls.

Didn't keep the girls from beating up on the boys, of course, but the whole idea of keeping boys from growing big and strong and hairy until they'd passed their sexual aggressiveness testing was to make sure that girls didn't get raped by their classmates, which had been a big problem back before the Crack-Up.

Hmph. Now the DMs made Roger watch vids of grown-ups doing stuff to boys (and vice-versa, of course), in the sleeping boxes and in the classrooms over in the small conditioning center that was part of the comfort complex. The grown-ups who did the classroom instructing mixed older slaves with younger ones depending on how experienced they were, and lots of the time the girls and the boys were mixed all together in some classes, which worked out okay because DMs and the grown-up slaves who taught them were really strict about messing around.

Besides – and this was weird – some of the girls were on the development suppression shots themselves, just like the boys. The Slave Authority wanted those girls kept 'little and cute' because lots of clients liked them better that way.

Made sense, I guess. Roger had to admit that some of those girls were kinda pretty, and the two he'd 'worked' with during those sessions with the clients had been okay sex slaves.

Not as good as boys, of course, but okay.

With his head held so he couldn't look away, Roger studied Mr. Chriswell's face. Lots of grown-ups were hard for Roger to understand, and he was pretty sure that this client was one of the strangest. What kind of grown-up man comes to a comfort complex with his own sex slave and then gets to spend overnight in a sex room? And get served lunch. Probably supper, too?

If Mr. Chriswell liked little girls, how come he didn't get a girl slave instead of a boy who had only been made a slave a couple of months ago?

Roger had been in sessions with other boy slaves, and in the classes at the conditioning center with them, and he knew that the more experienced boys were smarter and did stuff better than Roger could. After all, he was still learning. There was even a kid almost a year younger than Roger was – a boy with mousy brown hair and a turned-up nose and such a sad look in his eyes that even Roger had wanted to cuddle him – but that kid had been made a sex slave more than a year earlier, and the one time Roger had met the little guy when two clients had picked the both of them, that seven-year-old had done stuff in ways that Roger had been trying unsuccessfully to copy for a couple of weeks now.

Made the clients really like him. Sure, they'd done their dickies in Roger's bottom once each, but that younger boy had been so good at the sex that both of the men had concentrated almost all their attention on him throughout the session.

A seven-year-old. It made Roger feel stupid.

Now he was kneeling in front of a naked Mr. Chriswell, with a grown-up stiffie pointed at him, and the man was just looking down at Roger, calling him 'beautiful'.

"I'm not beautiful, sir," said Roger. Then he blinked, feeling himself blushing again, turning his eyes away, feeling even more stupid than usual. "I-I'm just a kid."

Mr. Chriswell let go of Roger's head, picked him up, and seated the slave boy on his left knee, one hand on Roger's back to keep him balanced, the other feeling those freckles on his face and getting slippery with tears.

"Nonsense." The man turned to his right, where Julia was on the floor, sitting on her heels, attentive to her Master's pleasure. "Fetch my tool kit and my pad."

Nodding, the girl got to her feet and from the interior pockets of her owner's suit coat brought an ordinary-looking pad and a little leather folder that bulged with irregular lumps. Using his tearstained fingertips, Mr. Chriswell opened the folder on the table and took out a small metal item that gleamed silvery and golden and bronze. Roger recognized it though he'd only seen its like once before.

A collar key.

He's got a collar key? What the heck?

The man's left hand shifted up onto Roger's right shoulder, and he felt the thumb and fingers taking hold of his slave collar. With his other hand, Mr. Chriswell found the opening on the other side of the steel encircling the boy's neck, kind of back behind Roger's left ear, and he felt as well as heard the solid clunk! as the symbol and strength of Roger's slavery opened.

In a daze, the boy sat there as if paralyzed while the front and back halves of the slave collar were spread apart and the heavy weight was removed to leave him utterly and absolutely naked.

His first enema session at the indoctrination center had been really bad. The only past experience Roger had had with that kind of thing had just about disappeared into his memory, and all he'd been able to recall had been his mom squirting warm liquid up inside his bottom and then lots of water and really bad-smelling poop flowing out of him with stinky farts, leaving him on the toilet seat feeling sick and dizzy and absolutely rotten afterwards.

Enemas were just plain disgusting, and calling it 'cleansing' now that he did it at least twice a day – sometimes three and four times a day – didn't make it any better. Roger had never paid all that much attention to his bottom before he'd gotten slaved, and now lots of people were paying attention to it.

It made sense, though. If grown-up men were gonna stick their dickies up inside a guy's bottom – if they were gonna stick their tongues up inside you, and wasn't that the weirdest doggone thing you could imagine? – they'd want you clean down there, inside as well as outside.

But Roger was pretty sure that he hadn't taken a regular, normal 'I-gotta-go-number-two' poop since he'd gotten slaved. Even though he'd felt the urge sometimes after getting the sex up inside himself, and he'd figured out that buttplugs were designed to make that kind of feeling in a kid's bottom, there was never anything to come out of him after his first-thing-in-the-morning cleansing except the sperms that the men had squirted into him, and that wasn't much.

Heck, if you liked the grown-up who'd just done the sex to you, it was kind of nice to keep it inside you until you had to cleanse yourself. Make that grown-up's stuff a part of you, almost the way it became a part of you if he made you suck him all the way and you had to swallow it.

Sperms were such a grown-up thing. Roger had learned about sperms in school, of course, and there were times in the sex vids that you got to see the sperms squirt – like from a water pistol, not the way pee came out in a steady stream – that one of the older kids had said was 'the money shot', usually on somebody's belly or his back or even his face. But it wasn't until he got slaved that Roger learned how important sperms were for the grown-ups.

They were the proof that a grown-up man was having his good feelings. Sure, even the ladies groaned or yelled swear words (which was kinda sexy, even though it had scared Roger at first), and the men really shoved their dickies into your bottom or your mouth or against your belly or even up and down on your face, but it was the sperms that made it sort of 'official' for them. After that they either washed up and left (lots of grown-ups, after all, had important stuff to do), or they cuddled up with you and rested to make more sperms to do you again later on.

Officially, after all, a client signed out a sex slave for a whole session – morning or afternoon or evening, and like with Mr. Chriswell could even keep one for a double session if the DMs would let him, though Roger had never had a client who could do the sex more than five times in a row even with those get-it-hard injections lots of them used.

When one of the clients used you just once and then left, you might be allowed to take a nap for a while in the sex room, but usually one of the grown-up slaves would come to fix up the place, and you had to cleanse and take a shower so the slave could bring you back through the service corridor to the ready area. Then another client could pick you for the sex again in the same session.

A couple of times, Roger had been chosen by three or four different grown-up men – one at a time – in a single evening session, which wasn't as bad as he'd thought it would be. When you were getting used by a client just so he could shoot his sperm, it was almost kinda like playing sex games with one of your friends back when you'd been a real boy instead of a slave, and Roger was more than a little bit proud of the way he'd been learning to make the good feelings happen really quick for a grown-up man.

There had been vids Roger had been shown, both in the conditioning center classes and in the sleeping boxes, about tricks a guy could use for that, but the teachers had told the kids to do it carefully.

Chapter 5

"A client comes here, chooses you for pleasure." The DM had looked around the room, making sure each of the boys was paying attention. All eight of the kids were kind of kneeling, in rows like in a regular school, each sitting back on his heels the way you were taught to be when you were showing submission.

You showed submission a lot when you were a slave boy.

There weren't any seats in the classroom because, of course, slaves aren't allowed to use furniture like real people. The floor was covered with tough, dense foam padding like the wrestling mats in the gymnasium, though, so being on your knees wasn't too nasty.

"You've all been taught how to judge a client's desire for sexual satisfaction," the DM continued. The videos have provided you with good examples, and most of you have at least a year's experience. Today we're going to work on living examples." The man had looked down at his pad, touched a place with his fingertip, and in a few seconds one of the doors to the side at the front of the room opened, and a big blonde teenager came into the classroom to stand next to the DM, glancing nervously at the group of slave boys studying him from their places on the floor.

Roger had gone alert right away, and he could tell that the other slave boys did, too. Teenagers were either very confident – which meant that they were experienced – or they were inexperienced and kinda shy. Lots of the experienced ones turned out to be bullies, the kind of big guys who liked to hurt a little kid with the sex, but you couldn't tell with the n00bs. Some of them, once they got started, really dug doing bad stuff to a slave boy.

The teenager was dressed in fatigue pants and a short-sleeved shirt, and he was wearing leather sandals without socks. He had a nice suntan, and you could tell that he was the kind of guy who really put on a show at Free Citizens' Militia demonstrations.

"You," said the DM, pointing to one of the other slave boys. "1-4-3-7. How would you approach this client if he told you that he wanted to take his pleasure with you and be gone in half an hour?"

The sex slave was one whom Roger had seen a bunch of times in conditioning sessions, but Roger had never talked to the kid. 1-4-3-7 had nice blue eyes and sandy kinda-brown hair, and you could tell somehow that even though he talked like he was older (when he talked at all, which wasn't much), he hadn't been a slave for very long. The boy was medium-tall, not bad with the muscles, and – like everybody else – he could out-run Roger on the doggone track. Disgusting.

Roger could see him looking the teenager over very nervously.

"If the Master made me rush to the comfort room," said the boy, "and he stripped my bindings off really quick, I'd help him take off his clothes as fast as I could, and I'd play with his penis even before he got undressed all the way." The slave blushed so hard that it was like his face was on fire. "I could tell if he was really in a hurry. Most grown-ups will want you to, to use your mouth, and then you can taste the clear stuff that comes from the tip. After that, when you know that he wants you, all you have to do is let him do the sex to you the way he likes best."

The boy blinked up at the client. "I think that this Master already knows how to use a slave boy for the sex. Y-you can see it in his eyes."

Roger could tell that the teenager was looking at 1-4-3-7 really hard, and there really was something about the big guy's eyes. He wasn't blushing, exactly, but his cheeks were flushed, and you could see his nose kinda spreading open to breathe in more air. He wanted that blue-eyed boy, wanted to use him for the sex. Roger realized that you could be absolutely sure of that, and he also realized that all the other slave boys could be sure, too. It was the first time that Roger had ever seen that look – that hungry look – directed at another boy, and it made him more than a little bit scared.

It was so different from having a client look at you yourself that way.

You could tell that 1-4-3-7 was feeling it, too, because the boy's dickie was super-stiff, poking up kinda more than out, and twitching just a little with every beat of his heart. Roger had had that happen to his own dickie sometimes, but it was the first time he'd seen it on another boy.

And, doggone it, but it looked sexy, didn't it?

The DM cleared his throat pretty loudly, and everybody in the room – including the teenager – looked at him.

"If you want him," said the Discipline Master, "take him."

"S-Sergeant?" said the outsider to the DM.

Roger had seen the stripes on the DM's sleeve, but hadn't paid much attention to them. A slave had to call every DM 'Master'.

"Take him," repeated the DM. "Right here. Right now."

"Yes, Sergeant." The client gulped visibly as he began to unbutton his shirt, and 1-4-3-7 shifted anxiously, as if he wanted to get up. None of the slaves in the classroom were allowed to move, though.

"Assist him," ordered the DM, and that let 1-4-3-7 jump to his feet and move toward the teenager, obviously nervous and embarrassed, but with a funny kind of eagerness. The visitor gave the kid a little smile as the slave boy took over with the buttons. The brown-haired kid got it open and untucked and he helped the outsider with taking it off, and then he dropped to his knees to unfasten the guy's sandals as the teenager pushed the waistband and his underwear all the way down in one motion. 1-4-3-7 held the pants down as his client stepped out of them, and then the teenager reached down and picked the boy up.

The teenager held 1-4-3-7 against his chest in a hug, then he reached down with one hand under the slave's knees and picked the kid up, like a big brother carrying a little one to bed. He walked back to the slave boy's original place.

It was a whisper, but Roger could hear it.

"Hi, Jimmy," said the client, still smiling at the slave boy. The teen-ager's big dickie was super-hard, and already the tip of it was wet with that clear stuff grown-ups make when they're really feeling sexy.

Is that the kid's old name? Roger saw the way the slave boy's eyes widened, flickered toward the DM, blinked.

Yep. Had to be.

The teenager laid the slave boy down on the mat as the others shifted a little bit to one side or the other, unconsciously trying to give him more room. He was gonna use 1-4-3-7 right there in front of everybody? Roger glanced around at the faces of the other slaves, and saw in their expressions that none of them had expected anything like this, either. But everybody had himself a stiffie, that was for sure.

On his knees, bending over the boy, the client slid one hand under Jimmy's head as the youngster looked up at him. "Alan 3;" the slave gasped. "Y-you don't have to do this!"

He was keeping his voice low, but his whispers were urgent. Blushing, almost quivering with dread and shame, there were tears glistening in the brown-haired boy's eyes, which were locked on the face of the visitor.

"Shut up, Jimmy," said the teenager. "I've found you, and I'm not letting go of you."

And then the big guy kissed the kid, as the slave boy whimpered helplessly, writhing, eyes closed, the teenager's other hand sliding all over the youngster's naked body, touching him everywhere, just about.

Roger looked at the DM, and then at the other slave boys. Roger realized later that the expression on his own face was pretty much exactly the same as on the face of every other slave in the room. Shock and bewilderment.

"You," said the DM, pointing directly at Roger "and you –" he picked out a boy from the other side of the classroom, dark-haired and dark-eyed and tanned all over, the way a guy gets after being a slave for a long time, always naked even when he goes outside in the sun. "Assist."

"Yes, Master," said the older slave, his attitude changing in an instant, no longer confused. Because of the no-grow shots all the slaves got, he didn't look any bigger than any of the other boys (heck, maybe he looked kinda 'younger' than some of them), but Roger was now absoutely sure that the guy was a lot older than he looked. His number was 2-2-6-3, and Roger couldn't recall whether or not anybody had said the slave boy's old name.

The kid got up and went to a cabinet near the back of the room to fetch sani-wipes and a tube of slippery stuff. Roger was right next to the client and his slave boy, but he didn't know what to do.

The big teenager looked at Roger. "A towel, kid. Nice and fluffy." Then he got back to locking eyes with 1-4-3-7.

Well, that was easy enough. Because the back of the classroom was kind of set up like the back of a sex room, he knew that there had to be big beach-sized white towels in one of the cabinets near the shower. They were in the second one Roger checked, and he grabbed two, just in case. When he got back to where the outsider was holding 1-4-3-7 and touching the boy and kissing him, Roger folded his legs under himself, sitting on his heels at the young Master's side, holding the towels and not knowing what else he was supposed to do. The other slave settled in the same pose on the on the other side so that the teenager had one – would you call it an 'assistant'? – on either side, each within easy arm's reach.

Roger had watched some instruction vids on how a slave boy is supposed to behave when a client is doing the sex to another person. Lots of grown-ups – men and women, or two men, or two women – would come to a comfort complex together just to have sex mostly with each other. They'd check out a slave or even two, because you had to do that to get a sex room, and though usually the slave got the sex done to him or her, too, sometimes the kid almost didn't get a penis pushed into him at all.

Grown-ups were weird.

There were things that a slave boy could do to help a grown-up client have good sex with somebody else, and Roger got interested in that because he knew that it would make the 'English butler' game even better.

1-4-3-7 – 'Jimmy' – was crying, and the visitor grabbed a wipe from the other slave boy to take care of the tears.

"Alan, this is wrong!" the kid whispered. "Why are you here? Why are you doing this to me?"

The teenager grinned. "My Uncle Jack. You didn't know him, did you? He's high up in the Slave Authority."

Roger's glance went nervously to the DM, but the man was sitting behind his desk at the front of the classroom now, paying attention to something on his pad.

When a free person got slaved, the Slave Authority did their best to make sure that he just kinda 3; disappeared. Roger had figured out that this was part of the reason why the Discipline Masters were so tough about making sure that only your number got used. The Authority sure didn't want your family or friends to know where you were, so when free kids got made into slaves, they were always sent to a comfort complex (though almost all of the girls wound up in one of the breeding stations to make babies) somewhere far away from where they'd used to live.

Roger learned later that 1-4-3-7 had been a neighbor of their visitor's. Jimmy had hung around with Alan even after the older boy had passed his sexual aggressiveness tests and stopped getting his suppression shots, which was kind of a no-no.

Like almost all the other boys Roger ever heard about, the two of them had been having had a lot of fun doing sex stuff together before Alan started to grow the way guys do when their shots are stopped, and they had to quit doing that kind of thing.

Because it was way illegal for a grown-up to do the sex to a real boy, both sets of parents had come down on the two friends big-time, never leaving them alone together. Roger knew how parents and other people did that kind of thing.

But then Jimmy's dad had been convicted of something bad, and had to go to jail. Jimmy was the youngest in his family, the only one who was too young to have passed the aggressiveness testing and been allowed to grow up, so Jimmy was the only kid in the family who got slaved.

Alan had really wanted to do the sex to Jimmy after Alan had begun to get big, but he'd been too embarrassed even to tell the younger boy how much he wanted it. It was against the law, right? But when Jimmy's dad got convicted, Alan had been in the courtroom to watch as the judge had ordered Jimmy to be enslaved, and the cops had stripped the kid right there in front of everybody and put the collar on him.

You didn't have to be a super-brain to know that the sight of Jimmy's enslavement happening right there in front of the judge and everybody had made Alan squirt the sperms in his underpants. The little neighbor boy he'd wanted to do the sex to had just become a slave, and it was legal to do the sex to a slave boy.

Alan had watched the cops haul the naked little guy out the door in back of the judge, sobbing and struggling and begging and pleading, with Alan knowing that he could never even see Jimmy again because the Slave Authority was going to make sure to put their new property so far away that nobody in the neighborhood could ever find him. They might even sell Jimmy to some rich guy who would keep the boy forever, and do all sorts of things to the kid, with cutting and piercing and making him not even able to talk anymore.

Thinking about that had probably made Alan squirt the sperms in his pants again, if Roger knew anything about teenagers.

Alan had been miserable for a whole day before he thought about his Uncle Jack, who might be able to do something. Could he get Jimmy out of being a slave? No way! Well, could he do something to keep Jimmy from getting bought by a rich guy and all 'modified'?

Hm. Maybe. And when Uncle Jack had come back in about a week to tell Alan that the chattel was going through indoctrination to be 'remanded' to a comfort complex, where it would serve as a sex slave, Alan had asked where!?

Impossible! Unthinkable! Policy! There were three new slave boys just delivered to the local comfort complex. Uncle Jack had tried out two of them so far, and they were just fine. Not very enthusiatic yet, but wonderful little rides. Why not try them out? Or one of the others. Get this 'Jimmy' kid off your mind. He's gone, and that's the end of it.

It had taken Alan something like three months to wear down his Uncle Jack, who had finally found out where the weenies at Chattels Management had assigned the asset numbered '1-4-3-7', and another week before Alan could get to Hadleyville, which was about the third most absolutely nowhere place the teenager could ever have imagined.

And now the DM – Sergeant Olinsky in the Free Citizens' Militia, just like Alan was a full-fledged cadet – was carefully studying something on his pad while Alan was sliding a slave boy's buttplug out and handing it to the kid with the sex lube while the belly-up little guy he was going to do inside with his big, hard penis whimpered and gasped and looked up at his older friend, obviously ready to just die of embarrassment.

But his stiffie sure hadn't gone down, had it?

"You said something about tasting the clear stuff, didn't you?"

Miserable, 1-4-3-7 nodded. "Y-yes, Master."

The teenager shuddered visibly, then looked down at the slave boy with a low growl. "Master! I used to dream about you calling me 'Master'."

"Oh, Alan, please 3;!"

The expression on the visitor's face got sad. "You don't want me to 3;?"

The slave boy sniffed back his tears. "No! I mean 3;" Jimmy looked like he was gonna die of embarrassment. Roger could tell that, yeah, the kid really wanted Alan to do him. Which was weird, but if a boy really liked somebody the way Jimmy really liked Alan, why the heck not?

"Uh, I wouldn't 3; I couldn't say no." 1-4-3-7 blinked up at the visitor. "You understand? The DM said 3;"

The visitor looked grim. "I won't do it to you if you don't want me to."

Which Roger didn't believe for a minute. You didn't have to be a sex slave very long to know when a man was gonna do it to a kid even if the boy was going to put up a fight about it. Not that a slave boy had a chance in that kind of fight. It just got you beat up some before you got an angry grown-up's dickie shoved up inside your bottom.

Roger privately thought of it as 'the rape game'. After all, a grown-up couldn't actually rape a slave boy because a slave boy was for having the sex done to him, right?

You could rape a real kid, but a slave like 1-4-3-7 was there in the comfort complex, with a collar around his neck and a tattoo on his leg for nothing else except so clients could do the sex to him.

But the rape game was sexy in a really sick kinda way. There were always clients who wanted to play it, and Roger had to admit that lots of times he'd liked getting it done to him that way, pretending to fight – or even really fighting, as hard as he could! – to get away from a big, strong grown-up man you could tell was getting turned on by the game.

I mean, if you're only eight years old and you'd been the smallest boy in your class back home, there wasn't much chance that you could do anything to make that grown-up stop raping you, right?

After the thing that happened with Paul-2 and those mean strangers, Roger had wondered whether he'd ever get to like playing the rape game again. But when he was finishing up the last day of his rest-and-recovery, one of the Discipline Masters had taken Roger to the conditioning center and run him through a bunch of exercises, just the man and him, with the weights and push-ups and finally all around the running track until Roger was all-over sweat and his muscles were like overstretched rubber bands and he was breathing so hard that it was like he was gonna throw up.

And then the DM had brought Roger into a classroom just like this one and wrestled him to the mat and did a really bad spanking to him, and then the DM had raped him, talking dirty all the way through it, making Roger think that the DM really hated him, and that had made Roger cry even worse than the spanking and the penis getting shoved so hard all the way up his bottom did.

But it made Roger's good feelings super strong, too, and he'd had them over and over and over until the orgasms were part of the punishment that was being done to him, and he kinda passed out.

When he woke up, Roger was being rubbed all over with a towel to dry the sweat, and he saw that it was the same DM who had worked him and spanked him and raped him, holding on to him and looking down at him with nice eyes, the way a grown-up does when he likes a kid. Roger was scared, thinking that the bad stuff was going to start up again, but the DM just held him and calmed him down, explaining.

A new slave boy like Roger had to learn that it was okay for grown-ups to use him 'rough', and even though they'd taught him that in the indoctrination center – and they'd done the sex to him really 'rough' a bunch of times! – something like what had happened in the sex room with the two strangers could scare a boy so bad that he might not be good for getting done that way any more.

The DM told Roger that little boys just naturally got sex pleasure from getting 'dominated' by grown-ups, and then he'd kind of encouraged Roger to tell all about the sex games he'd played with his friends, getting tied up and pretending that one or the other was a big, mean grown-up doing sex-torture to the helpless little boy. And that had been sexy whether you were the one doing the tying-up or the one getting tied for the 'torture'.

Even when it hurt, it was sexy, right? Well, what the DM had just done to Roger was proof that it was still sexy for Roger, that he could still have the sex feelings when a grown-up did really mean stuff to him in the rape game.

But the DMs and the other grown-ups in the Comfort Center were always watching, always listening, always making sure that no matter how awful somebody was to a sex slave like Roger, there was no way they were going to let a client get away with actually hurting one of the 'chattels', the way those two strangers had been doing to Paul-2 and Roger when the DMs and that servitor had busted in to stop it.

Then the DM spread the towels on the floor underneath them, and they cuddled up together to take a nice nap, with Roger waking up with the DM's arms all around him and the man kissing him all over his face, and the DM helped him cleanse properly and they took their showers together before the man put a clean buttplug up into Roger's bottom and used red cords to tie Roger's ankles together and his wrists behind his back and carried him – with a penis gag in his mouth, scared all over again – to the slave quarters and a cage where Roger had to lay there, tied up and gagged and helpless for hours and hours and hours before one of the servitors got him out to eat dinner.

Grown-ups were weird, and DMs were maybe the weirdest grown-ups of all, but getting tied up that way – with a plug in one end and a gag in the other! – sure made a guy know that he was a slave, didn't it?

The teenager, Alan, took both the towels from Roger and put them under Jimmy's head for a pillow and then got up on his knees over the kid's belly, looking down at the blue-eyed boy's face with that hungry look, making Roger go shuddery just to see it. He was aware of all the other slaves watching what was going on, and realized that this was being used by the DM as some kind of lesson.

But in what?

Jimmy's arms were kinda pinned against his sides by the visitor's knees, and Roger realized that this Alan guy had pretty good muscles.

The teenager's dickie wasn't all that big, and Roger was surprised to realize that while he would've probably thought it ginormous back when he'd been a real boy, as a sex slave he'd seen (and touched, and tasted) other dickies that were even bigger and thicker than the one that was poking out into the air over Jimmy's naked body.

Funny what a guy could get used to, wasn't it?

"You used to suck me a lot before 3;" The visitor hesitated. "Before I got big and 3;"

The slave boy's voice was very soft. "Before they took me away."

Jimmy was looking up at the teenager's face now, not scared or embarrassed but kinda sad. "I, I missed you, Alan."

"Yeah," said the teenager. "Me, too."

"I was mad at you for going to the comfort place back home," said 1-4-3-7. "Thinking about you doing the sex to the slave boys in there, and I couldn't go." A sniff. "I couldn't even go over your house any more, or have you sleep over, and now 3;"

Alan used the wipe to take care of the kid's tears again. "Yeah. And now you're a slave yourself, and I'm gonna do the sex to you."

1-4-3-7 glanced at the big guy's penis then up at his friend's face again. "If you want to. I wouldn't mind, honest. Even if you hurt me with it, I don't mind. Lots of other grown-ups did it to me already." He swallowed, hard. "I'm not good for anything else."

The client took 1-4-3-7 by the chin with one hand, his other hand back under the boy's head, and he stared down into those blue eyes. "You're good enough for me, Jimmy. I don't care what anybody else did to you. Understand?"

The slave boy nodded, kinda. "Yes, Master."

That made the visitor sort of halfway groan and growl. Heck, it made Roger want to do the sex to the kid, and Roger was only another slave boy himself. What was going on here?

"Suck my dick!" the teenager ordered, and he shifted, pushing his penis forward while he held up Jimmy's head.

Lots of grown-ups liked to do their sperms in a slave boy's mouth, but Roger knew that this dickie-sucking wasn't gonna happen that way. The visitor wanted to go up inside 1-4-3-7's bottom, and this sucking business was just to get him ready. Roger figured that a slave boy's spit added some kind of special slipperiness or something. Besides, it got a client's penis super hard if you sucked it properly, didn't it?

1-4-3-7 moaned, his eyes closed, as he tasted Alan's dickie. Roger could see the boy's hand on the side nearest him, the arms caught tight against the sides of his body, the fingers grabbing at his bottom cheek.

Like just about every other guy he used to know back home, Roger had sucked other boys' dickies ever since he'd been old enough to sneak away from the grown-ups. Everybody played sex games, and when somebody else sucked your dickie, you were supposed to suck him back. After all, fair was fair, wasn't it? And if you wanted him to suck yours, doing the sucking to him first was the best way to make him do it. Roger had gotten to be pretty good at the dickie-sucking that way. But sucking a grown-up's penis was against the law if you were a regular kid. It was child molesting.

Besides, just the thought of sucking a big old grown-up's thing had been really disgusting, even if you saw it done by people in the vids that kids weren't allowed to look at. Gross!

Well, Roger had sucked a lot of grown-up dickies since he'd gotten slaved, hadn't he? He'd been totally terrified that those two policemen – the ones who'd stripped him naked in the courtroom and put the collar on him – were going to do something like that to him. The way they'd been touching him all over, playing with his dickie and squeezing his testicles, he'd been waiting for one of them to unzip and pull out his thing to make Roger suck on it, like in one of the sex vids, but they hadn't.

It was the man in the indoctrination center who'd been the first.

Chapter 6

After the last of those awful enemas was done and the man had used one of those spray things to wash him off down below, Roger had just sat there on that big, high white chair in the room with the tiled walls and the drains in the floors, sweating and weak and miserable, not even wearing a collar any more because it was in the machine on the counter. When the man had stepped over to near the counter, Roger had thought it was to get the collar again, but instead the man had just started undressing, putting his shoes and his clothes into a wall locker. When he turned around, Roger had gotten a look at the first real, live naked grown-up man he'd ever seen.

He'd expected to be scared, and he'd been scared, but he hadn't expected the man to look so, well 3; handsome with all his clothes off. There were lots of muscles on the man's body, and he'd been tan all over, like he never wore a bathing suit, and the man had smiled at Roger with a really frightening look in his eyes. You could tell that the man was enjoying the way Roger had been looking at him.

"Normally," the man had said as he'd walked up to the chair, "we wait until you're marked and chipped and we do it in a nice little ceremony." He'd reached down and ran his left hand up and down the outside of Roger's right thigh, from his hip halfway to his knee. "You'll get the slave mark here, with your number, and the tracking chip in your pretty little rump. You don't remember getting your medical infochip in your left buttock, do you?"

Roger had shaken his head, kinda numb. That happened to a kid when you were just a baby. The doctor had a thing that could be held against your bottom and it could read your records and put new stuff into it, like when you got a vaccination or your suppression shots. He was going to get another chip in the other side? He'd known about the markings on the leg, but not about a new chip. Jeez, no wonder slaves could never get away from their owners. You didn't just have a collar around your neck and a tattoo on your skin but a tracker inside you.

The man had unfastened the straps that held Roger's legs in place, one pair just under the knees, and the other ones around his thighs to keep him tied down to the seat of the white chair on either side of the "U"–shaped opening. Then he'd reached behind and snapped some kind of catches and Roger had gasped in surprise as the top part of the chair – the seat and the arms and the back of it – slid forward away from the funnel thing down which all the 3; stuff 3; had gone during the enemas. He'd twisted around to see that there was some kind of cover on the funnel now.

Looking up at the man, Roger hadn't dared to ask what he was doing. Then the seat of the chair dropped away with another clunk! and the bottom half of his body went with it so that Roger had been left hanging by the strap around his chest, his wrists still fastened to the arms of the chair on either side He'd moved his bare feet frantically, but as he sagged his toes could just barely make contact with the floor, which had made him feel better somehow. What the heck was going on?

Then the man had done something around back to the arms of the chair that wasn't quite a chair any more, and first the arm on Roger's right and then on his left had pivoted back to lock with them – and Roger's arms! – sticking out at an angle, not painful, but not real comfortable, either. And it had sure made Roger conscious of how helpless he was.

"Right now," the man had said, "you're legally a slave, a chattel of the Authority, destined for a life of servitude as the plaything of any citizen who wants to use you." The cruel smile hadn't changed, but the man's hands had held Roger's head, fingers running through Roger's dark red hair, all gentle and nice, the way his mom had used to do sometimes.

"But there's not a mark on your body yet," the man had continued, "and no collar around your throat." He'd touched Roger there, all around, not quite tickling, but with a kind of tenderness Roger realized that he hadn't gotten even from his mom, not since he'd been a very little kid.

The man had smiled. "I could scrounge up some clothes for you and the two of us could walk out of here right now. No alarms would go off, nobody would even notice. I could drive you to a little diner right outside of town, we could sit down together, and I'd buy you something to eat. One of the specials tonight is probably chicken croquettes, and they're actually pretty good."

"And, and then 3;?" Roger's heart had been pounding so fast. "I can go home?"

The man had laughed, but he'd still been touching Roger that way, his hands warm and strong and gentle. "Baby, you haven't got a home to go back to. Don't you understand that? It's all gone. Confiscated by court order, just the way you were."

"I'm not a baby!" Roger had responded automatically, frowning fiercely in spite of his tears.

That had made the man chuckle a little. "Yeah, I know. You're a big boy, eight years old. I'm sorry, kid." He'd shifted, coming closer. "In fact, you're so much not a baby that I'm not gonna bother dilating you any more before I fuck you."

"F-fuck me?" Roger's voice had gone squeaky, his eyes wide at the sound of the F-bomb, at the same instant realizing that because 'fuck' meant what he thought it did – the man's penis going into his bottom – it was just plain horrible, wasn't it?

"Sure," the man had replied. "The bulb stretched you enough to keep my disappointingly average-sized cock from tearing you, even though your hypno-interrogations proved that you came here a perfect little virgin." That scary grin again. "Never had the nasty done to you ever, ain't that right, little guy?"

Roger had tensed. In all the S.C.A.R.E. classes they taught the kids to "Yell and Repel and Go Tell!" if a grown-up tried to do the sex to them, but there was nobody to hear him if he yelled, and how could he repel this big, strong grown-up hanging by this chest strap with his arms tied to the chair and his toes barely touching the floor. Could he kick the man? Should he kick him?

"I, I'll tell on you!" he'd threatened.

"No, you won't," the man had said confidently. "And if you did, who'd give a damn? You're here to undergo indoctrination. You're being prepared to serve the citizenry as a full-time sex puppet, a cute little fucktoy. Just because you've never had a man's dick up your cute little ass doesn't mean that you won't be getting them six or eight times a day – and twice that on Sundays – once you get into a comfort complex. Might as well start getting used to it."

He'd glanced down at Roger's dickie, and the grin widened. "Besides, it's got you excited just thinking about it, right?"

"Oh, please, mister! Please!" Roger had groaned. "Let me go! I wanna go home!"

"Wrong," the man had chided. "You don't call me 'mister'. I'm a free citizen, and you're a slave, even if you haven't got a mark on you yet. A slave, understand? You call every free citizen 'Master', and you keep a servile tongue in your pretty little mouth. Submit."

His look had turned grim. "And you are home. As much as a slave can ever know a home. Submit and accept your enslavement."

Then the man had taken Roger's head in his hands again, holding the boy's face up, moving in close, and he'd kissed Roger, right on the mouth, startling him so much that when the man had moved back a little to look at him again, all Roger could do was blink at him.

"S-sir?"

"Yeah, kid?" The man's voice had been low, not mean or angry any more.

"Why, uh, why did you do that?"

"Shh!" the Master had said softly. "It's a secret. Let's try it again."

And so the man had kissed Roger on the mouth again, but longer this time, and Roger had felt the man's tongue touch his lips, sliding around, and Roger had made a moaning noise because it was so embarrassing.

But he hadn't been able to do anything to get away from it, right?

After the man had kinda come up for air, Roger had looked at him. "W-what's the secret, m-Master?"

The man had smiled down at Roger, and kissed him, parent-style, on one eyebrow. "The secret is that being a slave isn't so bad for a cute little boy like you. You'll understand that soon, 6-4-3-9."

My name is Roger! he'd thought, but what he'd said was: "Yes, Master."

He'd watched the man open a little jar of thick, yellowish kinda clear stuff, and he'd thought it was the slippery, stinky gook that his mom put on his chest when he had a stuffed-up nose. He'd gotten some of that gunk in one eye once, and it had burned! Was the man gonna use that in Roger's bottom?

He'd started to panic, his feet peddling and pushing and the chair rattling as he'd tried to get away.

"Calm down!" The man's voice had been really strong. "What's got you so riled up?"

"Th-the stuff, Master." Wide-eyed, Roger had nodded at the jar of jelly in the man's hand. "It burns! Please don't put that in my, in my 3;!"

"This?" The man had looked at the jar, his forehead furrowed, then back at Roger. "It's just plain old jellied petrolatum." He'd frowned even harder, and then smiled. "You think it's that menthol rub? That crap they wipe on your upper lip to clear your congestion?" The man had laughed. "No way, kid! I'm not getting that kind of stuff on my dick, much less up your botty."

He'd held the jar up to Roger's face. "Sniff. No menthol. Just a kind of clean grease to slick up my cock for you. See?"

Roger had looked down at the open jar dubiously, breathed in, nodded, visibly relieved. "Oh, okay." He'd blinked up at the man. "Sorry, sir. I never saw anything like that before except the smelly stuff."

"No problem," the man had said, digging out some of the grease and then putting the jar back on its shelf. He'd held his big dickie by the root with one hand and with the other he'd spread the stuff all over the shaft of it and then he pulled back the skin to show the tip of it, all dark and wide and kind of curving up a little, putting the slippery grease over that part, too.

To make it go up inside me! Roger had thought, really terrified.

"I know guys who do use that menthol rub. And worse." The man had glanced up at Roger. "They wear a condom so that you get the heat and they have their fun making you scream." The man had shuddered, his dickie going kinda harder as he was putting the stuff on it, and Roger could tell somehow that the man was thinking how much he would like to do the sex to Roger that way.

Oh, jeez!

The man had wiped his hands on a towel and set it aside to step in closer to Roger. The tip of the man's big penis had rubbed slippery against Roger's chest, making both of them aware of just how little Roger was compared to the big man who was going to do the sex to him.

"If you hadn't been unscheduled," the man had said, running his fingers through Roger's hair again, "there would've been four or five of us down here to celebrate your arrival." A chuckle. "A real gang-bang from the git-go. But as it is 3;" He'd leaned down again to kiss Roger on the mouth, pushing his tongue past the boy's lips and right into Roger's mouth, so weird! Roger kinda automatically had pushed back with his own tongue, and they kinda wrestled, slippery and warm and tasting each other's spit for a long couple of minutes, Roger whimpering and the man growling, Roger coming to the surprised conclusion that he sort of almost liked this kind of kissing.

In spite of all the yucky parts of all the movies he'd seen, he'd known for sure that he'd never want to do stuff like this with a girl. There are limits, y'know?

Being tied to the chair thing was a real pain, though. He'd started wanting to hug the man, even though the guy was doing bad things to him. As mean as the man had been, you could tell that he'd been starting to like Roger.

You had to be awful friendly with a kid to kiss him like this, didn't you?

"When we bring a little fella like you in here, we give him a special welcome," the man had said, his voice low, looking down into Roger's upturned face. "We open him up with our cocks, one after the other, to start teaching him the facts of life." He'd smiled. "You know what slave boys are for, don't you?"

Trembling with fear, Roger had nodded. "Yes, sir. To, to do the sex to. For grown-ups to do the sex. Everybody knows that."

"Yeah. So what d'you think about that?"

Roger had blushed, turning his eyes away from the man's face, wondering if he was supposed to know more about the slave sex stuff than they'd taught him in school. Which really wasn't much. "I dunno, sir."

The man had taken Roger by the chin with the tips of his thumb and fingers, making him look up again. "Lots of little boys have been where you are right now, understand?"

"S-sir?"

"You're not the first kid to go through this, little one, and you're not going to be the last. We've got plenty of experience with breaking in a fresh-caught minnow like you. I won't tell you not to be scared, or that it's not going to hurt, because it is going to hurt. That's the way of it for a slave boy, and it always will be. Men – and women – enjoy hurting you little guys the way we're going to hurt you in here. We like the way a child responds to the pain. It's part of the pleasure for us, and it's going to become part of the pleasure for you, too. You're here for us to hurt you with the sex, understand?"

Roger had swallowed hard, but he'd nodded. He'd always understood that, really. Even way before the teachers in school had taught him about how the law could make any free kid into a slave if his parents got in trouble. What was happening to him was part of his family's punishment, and even though it wasn't Roger's fault, it was still the law, wasn't it?

"Okay," the man had continued, using his thumbs to wipe the tears away from Roger's cheeks. "You can fight me if you have to, but you know it's not going to do any good, right?"

Miserably, Roger had nodded again. "Yes, sir." He'd sniffed. "I'll try to be good for you, sir. To do the sex to."

The man had chuckled. "Don't worry, little guy. You're going to be great, I'm sure of it. Here, just put your legs up, around my waist – yeah, that's it."

Suddenly, Roger had had a flashback to the times he'd been allowed some playtime in the swimming pool at the conditioning center, when one or another of the older boys would grab him from in front or carry him piggyback in the water, the sensation of clutching a bigger, stronger body to his own, both of them naked, the feeling of nice, strong muscles against his skin making him pop a boner that nobody teased him about because just about every kid gets a hard-on when they're doing that kind of stuff.

Of course, Roger had already had a stiffie when the man in the indoctrination center had picked up Roger's ankles and wrapped the boy's legs 'round himself. Roger had been surprised, though, to find that doing something like this outside the swimming pool, and with an all-the-way-grown-up man, could make his dickie go even tighter, angled up against his tummy, so hard that it kinda made the breath catch in his throat.

The man had then put one hand around underneath, in the small of Roger's back, to support him, and that was okay. He'd been afraid that he wasn't going to be able to hold on with just his legs. After all, this was a grown-up, a lot wider around the middle than another kid was, and they weren't in hip-deep water right now, either.

Then he'd felt the man moving the tip of his man-dickie slowly up and down in the space between Roger's bottom cheeks, slippery and warm and big. Blinking, he'd looked up at the man's face, wondering what he was supposed to do. The man had had an intent look of concentration, and Roger had felt himself being shifted as the man had lowered himself a little, bending his knees, and then there was a slippery rounded presence right up against the opening to Roger's bottom, where the enemas had gone in, and the pressure had grown and grown.

Roger had tightened up when he'd felt that. A guy couldn't help that, right?

"Take a deep breath and hold it," the man had ordered, and Roger had obeyed.

"Now – slowly – let it out."

The boy had started to do that, too, remembering how the doctors had used that trick to get their fingers into Roger's bottom. When I let all my breath out, he'd thought, he'll push it inside me.

But of course, the man had tricked him. Roger had gotten maybe half of it out of his chest when suddenly the man had shoved, really fast, but only an inch or two [5 cm].

But that had sure been enough to get the head of the man's dickie – so big! – inside Roger's bottom, spreading him open and lodging within.

"Oh, sir!" he'd yelped. "Oh, it hurts! It burns, mister! Take it out! Please take it out."

Roger had looked up at the man, horribly embarrassed to be begging this way, but he'd never felt anything like this before. Had the man lied to him about using the smelly stuff? It felt so hot inside his bottom!

But the man had only shaken his head, a serious expression on his face.

"No, little guy, that's not menthol rub you're feeling. It's the stretching inside you. Lots of boys perceive it as a burning sensation when they get a man's cock coming into their bodies." The man had grimaced. "But you sure as hell feel hot around the neck of my prick! And tight!" He'd shuddered, and Roger had been able to feel the man's knees going wobbly for an instant before the guy had steadied up.

Then the man had pushed his dickie further up inside Roger's bottom, and that had made Roger start crying, just like a little kid, squirming around and kind of pulling his knees up in spite of his determination to be good, not to get away – because he couldn't get away, could he? – but to make it not hurt so much.

If only – yeowtch! – he could kinda change the angle or something. Wide-eyed, he'd looked up at the man. Had that big dickie gotten bigger somehow? Another push, and even more hurting, making Roger gasp and then groan with misery. Grown-ups had to be crazy to do something like this to a kid. What did they like about it, anyway?

Chapter 7

He'd tried to make his bottom tighter, to push the man's big penis out of himself, or at least to make it tougher for the man to stay inside him, but that had only made the man stare down at Roger with pleased surprise, and then the man had pushed in harder, both hands holding Roger by the hips now, shifting him in a way that kinda tilted his bottom up more, making the big penis fit into Roger better. Roger had been held there for an instant, and then the shoving had gotten started for real, the thing getting pushed into his bottom, then backing off, then pushing in again, deeper.

Over and over the man had gone back-and-forth, always getting the big, thick dickie deeper and deeper into Roger's insides and suddenly Roger had been tremendously glad that the man had given him all those enemas, because it would have been just awful to get the man's grown-up penis all dirty from the stuff that came out of a kid's poop-hole.

But Roger had been made clean inside, all clean for the man to do this to him – oh, it hurt! – clean for the sex that a slave boy had to have done to him, and he'd been able to tell that the man was really liking Roger for the sex this way, the littlest kid in his class at school, the boy who always came in last in the races no matter how much he practiced – oh, gawd, was that big man-thing getting wider somehow? – his own little stiffie so teensy, so shameful, so ugly compared with this grown-up's handsome penis 3;

Roger hadn't been able to do anything except hang there from the strap around his chest, which held him so tight that he was having trouble breathing unless the man lifted him up a little. In a way, he'd been kinda glad that his wrists were still tied to the arms of the chair-thing. If they'd been loose, Roger might have tried to fight back against what the man was doing to him, not just because it'd been hurting him so much but because he'd been so embarrassed by it.

Even though Roger had known that he'd been made a slave by the judge, it hadn't been until now that he'd actually come to grips with just what being a slave meant for a guy his age. A real boy wasn't supposed to ever get a grown-up's penis in his bottom. That was against the law.

But a slave boy wasn't for much else besides getting the sex done to him, and this was the kind of sex that grown-ups wanted to do when they got a slave boy to use.

He'd gazed up at the man's eyes. The man had been concentrating almost entirely on the opening of Roger's bottom, every now and then glancing at Roger's face, looking worried, and Roger had realized that in spite of what the man had said, he'd been trying to make sure that the hurting wasn't all the way too bad for Roger.

That had made Roger ashamed at the way he'd been crying, and he'd tried not to groan or yell "Ow!" or even gasp so much as he'd felt the sliding-out and shoving-in of the man's penis, spreading him and spreading him as it went deeper and deeper.

Roger had begun to understand that the slave sex – getting done in your bottom with a big penis – was a lot different from getting the enemas up inside him. For one thing, though the enemas hadn't been exactly cold, by the time the last couple of ones had gone into him, he'd been shivering pretty bad. This penis-pushing had been just the opposite. The pain in Roger's opening as the man had gotten the tip of his dickie inside had been like burning, and even when that had kinda gone down some, he'd still been feeling heat in his bottom, as if the man's penis had some kind of extra warmness in it.

It couldn't be from the rubbing, could it? The man had put all that slippery stuff all over his dickie – ooh, he'd felt the hairs tickling against his butt cheeks, and then they'd been getting crushed between the man's middle and Roger's bottom, and without realizing it Roger had pulled his knees up more and more on both sides to get his legs apart, putting his toes against the man's hips, the way you put them against the sides of a tree trunk you were climbing, and that had let the man shove that big dickie even further up inside Roger's guts.

How could it be fitting up there? The man's hard-on was the single biggest dickie Roger had ever seen. The pictures of naked grown-ups in his school books and vids hadn't shown them with boners, and though the dickies in those pictures had looked big, they'd kinda 'fit' on the grown-ups' bodies, just hanging down the way you wanted your dickie to be when you had to pee.

This man's penis had been hard from practically the first instant Roger had seen it, and though Roger had tried not to let the man see him doing it, Roger hadn't been able to keep from staring at it like the stupid little kid he was.

Now it had been put inside Roger, and the man had gotten it all the way up inside him, filling Roger with grown-up sex, both of the man's hands on Roger's hips to hold the boy up, making Roger feel the strength and confidence of a grown-up who had done the sex to a lot of other little boys.

Roger had wondered how many. Had the man kept count? Oh, my! The man had sure been doing the sex inside Roger's bottom like he'd known just exactly how a slave boy should get the sex done to him. Roger had gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as the push of the man's penis had gone into his body really fast, really hard, hurting him even more, and then the man had begun to speed up the in-and-out, pulling back slowly and then really shoving it forward and in so that Roger couldn't help going "Oh, sir!" and sucking in his breath as the length of the man's dickie had slammed into his bottom, punishing Roger for being little and naked and helpless this way.

The man's eyes had been fixed on Roger's face then, and Roger had been terribly conscious of that grim focus. He'd known somehow that the man had been judging Roger right then, seeing how Roger was going to work out as a sex slave for other grown-ups to use, and he'd wondered what he could do to make the man like him that way.

Which you would have thought was something crazy. What kind of kid wanted grown-ups to do the sex like this in his bottom?

Well, one of the things that Roger had been scared about – heck, still was scared about – were the stories you heard about how some slaves got 'harvested' for their body parts, just cut up and used for people who needed transplants. It was one of those things that the abolitionists were always telling people, trying to make the government quit turning kids into slaves.

Roger hadn't believed it, of course, because his teachers and his mom had told him that such horrible things didn't really happen to slaves.

Except maybe it could. Slaves weren't real people.

And now that Roger had been made into a slave, if he wasn't good for the sex with grown-ups, would they 'harvest' him for his body parts?

When Roger and the other kids in school had talked with each other about slaves – even though none of them had ever more than seen a sex slave in the school vids that taught real kids how to behave around all the different kinds of slaves – they'd done it away from the grown-ups, kinda quietly, wondering how much they should believe the stories and how much they could believe what their teachers and other grown-ups told them.

Ever since the judge had made him a slave and the policemen had started to take off his clothes, Roger had been super-conscious of how it had proved that they could do anything – absolutely anything! – to a boy who hadn't done anything wrong, no matter how mean and horrible and unfair it was.

If they could strip Roger right there in the courtroom, in front of his mom and the lawyers and the people in the audience, if they could make him totally naked and put that slave collar on him to make him not be human anymore, what couldn't they do to him?

This man who'd been doing the sex to Roger, working his big penis in and out of Roger's bottom faster and harder, hurting Roger more and more and more even though there had been sex feelings – terrible, awful sex feelings! – growing and growing inside Roger's body almost like the feelings Roger got when he played with his stiffie, but stronger and deeper 3;

Could this man have been deciding whether or not Roger was going to be turned into spare parts for sick people?

Roger had looked up at the man, wincing and shuddering as the big penis had slid into him and out of him, seeming to get bigger inside him, pressing and rubbing against something connected to the bottom part of Roger's own dickie to hurt him in a really awful way, awful because for just an instant each time it was like Roger was being forced closer and closer to his good feelings, and the man hadn't even touched Roger's stiffie since this enormous grown-up thing had started going into him.

Was a guy supposed to have his good feelings when a grown-up was doing the sex inside his bottom? Roger had groaned, embarrassed and frightened, trapped in the man's hands, feeling his nakedness in a way he'd never felt it when he'd been in the swimming pool or the locker room at the conditioning center, or doing sex games with his friends.

If he had his good feelings from the way the man's penis was doing him, would that mean Roger wasn't the right kind of boy for the slave sex? Could he keep the good feelings from happening? Oh, it wasn't fair! He wouldn't 3; he couldn't 3;

And then Roger had blinked once, twice, and he'd caught sight of the man's eyes again, even more fiercely intent upon Roger's face, and the feelings had exploded from Roger's dickie, making Roger holler "Oh, sir!" and try to pull himself out of the man's hands, the sensations so strong that Roger had been sure that he was going to die, right then and there, if he didn't make them stop.

But he'd later figured out that this had been why the man had done the sex to Roger while his wrists had been tied down and his chest had been strapped to the back of the chair thing.

Roger hadn't been able to help the squirming and the sobbing and the up-and-down movement of his middle, as if he'd been trying to rub his dickie against something, anything, to make the good feelings go even stronger, the way he'd done when one of his friends had been playing with Roger's stiffie, or sucking it.

Thinking about that (and it had been a surprise to him later that he'd been able to think about anything at all, with the man doing that big penis in and out of Roger's bottom faster and stronger so that the hurting-so-good feelings were driving Roger absolutely crazy) had made Roger remember doing the sucking to one of his friends, Jackie Tedesco, who'd always grabbed the back of Roger's head to hold Roger's face down against Jackie's middle and really wham! himself against Roger's mouth – bam, bam, bam! – when Jackie got his tickle-bone.

And even though that had been pretty wierd (nobody else in the neighborhood got tickle-bones so strong), Roger had liked Jackie a lot. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, skinny, joking Jackie had been the favorite one of Roger's friends to do the sex games with, as well as the most fun to hang around with when they couldn't sneak off and mess around doing the naughty stuff.

Though Roger had been afraid that he was gonna die from the feelings the man had been making inside him (they were just so nasty!), remembering Jackie helped Roger to realize that the man had started having his good feelings inside Roger's bottom, kinda like the way Jackie had gotten his own good feelings in Roger's mouth.

Wham! had come the first big push, then – just like Jackie, only a lot stronger – bam, and a pull-back, then bam, and bam and bam and 3;

Well, Roger hadn't kept count very well. The shoving-in had come slower and slower, but even after Roger could tell that the man's good feelings were done, the grown-up had kept moving his hard-on slowly in and out, calming down, catching his breath, bending his head down to kiss Roger again and again, over Roger's forehead and cheeks and eyelids and lips, and that had been special nice.

Finally Roger had been able to get out some words. "D-did I do okay, sir?"

The man had smiled a tight small smile and he'd nodded. "Yeah, just fine." Another kiss for Roger, and then the man had raised up his head. "Did you like it?"

Roger had looked at the man, puzzled. I was supposed to like it?

"I, uh 3;" Roger had taken a swallow, realizing that his throat was dry and he'd wondered if maybe he could get the man to do that kind of big wet kiss to him again, and wasn't it weird to be thinking that way? "I guess I liked it, sir." He'd looked down at his middle, where his dickie was still pretty stiff and the man's penis was slowly going in and out of his bottom, and then he'd felt all shuddery for an instant.

Jeez, I just got real, truly horrible slave sex done to me! All the stuff he'd heard about it and talked about with the other guys, all the things you had to guess about because the grown-ups wouldn't let you see the dirty pictures or watch the porn vids, all the bits and pieces that had gotten muddled-up and confused in Roger's mind, and it had just happened to Roger, just like that.

And it had been kinda, well 3; natural, like it had been something that was supposed to happen to a guy who was bare-ass naked for a grown-up to do that way.

This could get done to any kid, couldn't it? Roger had thought about Jackie Tedesco, about his other friends, regular boys who didn't think anything about running around naked in the swimming pools and the locker rooms at the conditioning center, all the time being just perfect for grown-up men to use for the sex.

But there the man had been, big and strong and really handsome, holding Roger's middle on either side while Roger had kept his toes kinda balanced on the man's hips, the man looking down at Roger all thoughtful and almost worried-like, and Roger had been able to tell that the man's dickie was going soft.

With one of his hands, the man had slid under the lowest part of Roger's back, and with the other he'd reached for something on a shelf near the chair, and put it on the arm of the chair just in front of Roger's left hand. Roger had seen that it was little shallow jar of stuff wihout a lid, and he'd taken it between his fingertips kinda automatically, being careful not to let it spill. Then the man had reached for something else, a dark red sort of blunt carrot-shaped thing that the man had put into Roger's right hand, and Roger had seen that at the widest part it was maybe about twice or three times as thick as his own thumb, and as long as the distance between the base of that thumb and the tip of Roger's pointer finger. Maybe a little bit longer. It was rubbery and kinda bendy when he moved it around in his hand, and after the smooth widest part it narrowed down to straight part maybe as thick and as long as the middle bone in Roger's pointer finger, after which there was something like a T-shaped crosspiece, the ends of that part curved up on either side. Could it have been some kind of big rubber bullet?

Then the man had taken the bullet-thing from Roger's right hand, kind of rolled the point and the thick part of it in the gooey clear stuff in the jar, and – letting his penis slide all the way out of Roger's bottom (which had made Roger feel all empty in a really weird kinda way) – the man had slid the red rubbery thing right into Roger's guts.

"Ah!" Roger had yelped, and he'd felt the man fiddling with the thing, twisting it a bit and shifting it, and while Roger knew it wasn't as thick or as long as the man's dickie, he'd realized that it was being put inside him to stay.

That had kinda made it feel super-enormous.

When the man had let Roger's legs down again and the boy had been standing on tip-toe, Roger had watched as his wrists were unfastened and then tried to take the slack off the chest strap to help the man get that undone, too.

Surprisingly, Roger had almost fallen down after that, because his legs had been a lot more wobbly than Roger had expected. The man had apparently figured it would happen that way, though, because he'd caught Roger right away, and with one hand on either side of the boy's chest he'd picked Roger up like a baby and brought him away from the chair-thing to the middle of the room, where the man had gotten down on his knees right in front of Roger, smiling up at the boy.

"Steady!" the man had said, letting Roger stand by himself, but keeping his hands on Roger's ribs.

"Yes, sir," had been all that Roger had been able to say. Then "S-sir?"

"Yeah, kid?" The man was pulling down, and Roger let himself sink down to the floor, his own knees folded between the spread-apart knees of the man, then kind of further down, with Roger's bottom up against the man's left thigh.

"What's the, uh, thing you put in my bottom?"

The man had looked surprised for a second, then nodded. "Every time I take one of you kids through this, I forget how stupid parents really are. It's called an obturator, boy. It's holding the healing gel inside you, but it's also keeping your bottom open so that you can be more easily penetrated when it comes time to use you again. Understand?"

Wide-eyed, Roger had nodded. He was going to be 'used' again. And again and again and again 3;

"Okay," the man had continued. "Now, look down at my cock."

Roger had obeyed. It was still very big, but it had gone soft after the man had had his good feelings up inside Roger's bottom. It was gleaming with the greasy stuff that the man had put on it before pushing it into Roger.

"Take it in your hands," the man had ordered, and Roger – kinda hypnotized or something – reached down with both hands and did that, feeling its sticky-slippery warmth and soft thickness and marveling that it had been able to fit inside him. Amazing!

Even more amazing, though, had been the way he'd also felt it start to go hard again. Without thinking, Roger had squeezed it a little, the way you did with another boy's dickie when you wanted him to get a stiffie for you to play with.

But this dickie had been a whole lot bigger, of course.

"Go down on me," the man had ordered.

Puzzled, Roger had looked up at the man's face. "Sir?"

Roger had felt the man's hands gather up the back of his head, holding him gently.

"Suck my cock, boy. Right now."

That had made Roger jump a little, and he hadn't realized it but he'd flinched as if he'd been trying to get away. The man's grip on him had gone pretty strong, though, until Roger had gotten hold of himself.

I'm a slave! He'd been surprised to look down and see that he hadn't let go of the man's penis. I'm a slave, and he's a Master. If he tells me to, I've GOTTA suck his penis!

His eyes locked on the sight of that big, grown-up dickie – which had been going all the way hard again, right there in his hands – Roger had leaned forward, breathing in the scent of his own bottom, and the strange funny smell of what he knew had to be the sperm cells he'd learned about in school (and talked about with his friends), to point the tip of the man's penis up toward his lips so that he could kiss it, and then lick the head of it, and then finally, whimpering helplesssly, take it into his mouth.

And even though Roger still thought that sucking a grown-up's dickie right after he'd put his sperms up inside you was all gross and disgusting, he had to admit that it was humongously sexy.

The grown-up seemed to think that, too.

It had taken a while before the man had lifted Roger's head up and he'd walked the sobbing, clinging little boy into the shower so they could help each other wash up.

NEXT PART