Bill Underhill

A Slave is a Slave

Stories from the Comfort Complex

I. Sleepover

Chapters 8-14

Chapter 8

There had been dark blue and white flip-flops in a little package that the man had torn open and tossed tossed to Roger so that one of them fell out onto the floor. Obedient to the unspoken command, Roger had picked it up, looked at it, and put it on his right foot. The other one went on and then he looked around for a wastebasket.

"Under the sink," the man had said, and after Roger returned, he found that the man had gotten an armload of clothes out of a high-up cabinet and was examining the tags at collar and at waistband. There had been all sorts of clothes, obviously kids' clothing, no item very much like any other, as if they were a jumble of discards from one of those charity bins into which mothers dropped their kids' outgrown stuff.

The man had picked out a red pair of shorts, made out of some kind of satiny material, and Roger recognized it as part of a soccer uniform. For physical education at the conditioning center, all the kids wore the shorts and shirts you were issued, and those were always a kind of gray-green color. The shorts had gone on the counter and a green tee shirt was thrown to him, which he managed to catch.

He'd tried to get it on, but it was too small, and he had to get his head out of it, looking at the man apologetically, bringing it back to him.

"Okay, what's next size up?" the man had grumbled to nobody, rummaging.

"What are all these clothes for, sir?"

"They're from other kids who've been enslaved here," the man had explained. "Boys and girls both." He'd looked at a yellow shirt with 'Cheney Primary School' in white letters, frowned, and folded it back up. "Some arrive free, not collared yet. We strip 'em on intake here, and process them for indoctrination." He'd smiled at Roger. "A couple of the Discipline Masters here collect their underpants, if they arrive wearing any, but the outside clothes just accumulate until we've got enough to justify taking a bagful to one of the county charity stores. Most parents and guardians don't exactly dress up their incorrigibles when they take 'em in to become slaves."

He'd held up a light blue tee shirt with a 'Killbot' image on the front of it, and he'd turned to Roger, who'd put up his arms cooperatively to let the man slip the garment over the boy's hands and head. It had been a little bit baggy, but that was okay. Roger had put his hand on the man's shoulder as the DM bent forward, holding the stretch waistband of the shorts open for the boy to put in one leg and then the other. There had been no problem with the flip-flops.

When the man had stood up, he'd smiled at Roger. "That'll do, 6-4-3-9." Then he'd frowned. "But I can't call you by your number out there." He'd jerked his head a tiny bit toward the door. "What did you say your name used to be?"

Roger had blinked. "R-Roger, sir."

The man had grunted. "Well, if we're going to pretend you're a real boy, we might as well pretend that you've got a real name. I'll call you 'Roger'." Then his eyes had gone hard. "Just remember to keep a servile tongue in your mouth, slave."

"Yes, Master!" Roger had regarded his captor with wide eyes, remembering how the man had done the sex up inside his bottom, and how his suffering was going to go on and on in this place until they judged him a proper sex slave to put in a comfort complex.

Then he'd thought of something. "Master?" he'd asked. "What am I supposed to call +you, sir?"

The man had walked over to another locker – not the one he'd put his uniform into – and was getting out some clothes. He'd turned to look at Roger. "Hm. Can't call me 'Master', can you? Okay. My first name is Charles. You call me 'Uncle Charles'. You're my unofficial nephew for the evening, got it?" He'd smiled. "Lots of private owners who buy really little boys and girls – and keep 'em that way with the injections – like to be called 'Uncle' by their slaves." He'd walked back over to Roger, put his clothing on the counter, and stood naked in front of the boy with one hand on each of Roger's shoulders, his big dickie hard again and pointing right at Roger's chest.

"This is so goddam much against regulations," the man had said with a smile as he'd tucked a finger under Rogers chin to lift up the boy's face to see him better. "But I don't really care." Then he'd started putting on his regular clothes – not the nice uniform he'd been wearing when Roger had been turned over to him – startng with a pair of briefs, and Roger had been surprised by how disappointing it was to see that nice big dickie get hidden from his sight.

He'd liked that dickie, even though it had hurt him so much in his bottom, and that reminded him of the plug up inside him, and he'd shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, trying to get used to the feeling.

Sitting down on a chair to get his shoes and socks on, the man had laughed. "You'll never stop feeling it, boy. It's meant to remind you of what your bottom is for."

"It, it feels almost like your dickie is still up inside me, sir." Roger had grimaced a little. "It hurts, kinda, and it makes me feel 3;" He'd blushed and looked down at the floor.

"It keeps you kindled," the man had said. "Keeps you ready for a man to use you. It's part of what makes you different from the real boys out there, though you should know that there are plenty of free boys running around with obturators like that one in their little bottoms."

Roger's eyebrows had gone up at that, and he wasn't sure that he believed it. Regular boys, free boys could be made to wear these plug things in their bottoms? Every time he moved, he'd felt it moving inside him, making him ache and shudder, and it would not let his stiffie go away.

The man had finished getting his shoes on and stood up, taking a phone from his belt clip and pressing a quick-connect from the menu. He'd spoken into the thing, something about going out for dinner, and locking up, then putting the phone back in its clip.

"There's another fellow on duty down in the slave quarters," the man had explained. "There's only two of us assigned here after business hours." He'd smiled. "And he doesn't know we've got an unexpected intake. He's been asleep on his cot in the office down there, and won't wake up for anything but an emergency. The guy holding down the desk up here usually goes down to the diner for something to eat right about now. I can be back here in five minutes if somebody hits the communicator at the door. I've set it to roll over to this thing." He'd tapped the phone at his belt.

Then he'd reached for Roger's hand, which the boy had given him, and the man had led him out through the same door the two cops had used to bring him in only a few hours before.

"Can't take you in a cruiser," the man had said, almost apologetically. "Their use is monitored and recorded." He'd guided Roger to the passenger side of a well-kept but obviously not new car at the far end of the parking lot. The man had settled Roger in the back seat and strapped the boy in, but with a lot more than just a seat belt. Roger had felt panic as his wrists were surrounded by padded cuffs that held them down to the seat on either side, and similar ankle cuffs fastened down below.

A very solid padded kind of 'blinder' thing had been pulled out of the back of the seat close on either side of Roger's head, and a cloth strap had been run across the boy's forehead.

"New restraint system," the man had said with a smile. "They're gonna put 'em in all the passenger cars pretty soon. Keeps little boys and girls super-safe in case there's an accident. Like it?"

"I, I don't think so, sir." Roger had blinked up at the man, but he didn't doubt that grown-ups would want to do this kind of thing to little kids. Some of his friends' parents were making their kids wear bicycle helmets whenever they rode in a car.

"Just put up with it, boy. After all, this is the last time you're ever going to be riding in a civilian vehicle's kid seat."

"Sir?"

The man had gotten into the driver's seat and buckled his own seatbelt. "Yeah. Government slaves are transported as cargo, in full-restraint travel boxes. Very safe, very secure." He'd turned his head to grin at Roger. "But we're pretending that you're a real boy for the moment, aren't we? Just relax and enjoy it."

It had seemed like it took a long time to get to the restaurant, but that had probably been because Roger hadn't liked the cuffs and the head-holder. It all made him feel so helpless, and that wasn't anything any kid ever liked.

But I'm not a real kid anymore, he'd remembered. I'm a slave. So he shouldn't get upset about it, should he?

Yeah, right 3;

When the man had gotten them parked at the restaurant, he'd come around to the passenger side and, leaning in, he had kissed Roger on the mouth again, one hand under the boy's chin to tilt Roger's head back, and Roger had just kinda automatcially closed his eyes and given in to the kiss, confident that it was enough after sundown that nobody could see them doing this kind of sissy stuff.

The man had to have had a lot of practice getting kids into and out of the cuffs and stuff, because Roger had been out of the car and walking toward the shiny chrome-plated building practically before he knew it. They'd gone in the door at one end, and Roger had felt suddenly very shy as his 'Uncle Charles' had steered him through the space between the long counter and the booths along the front windows until they got to one of the empty booths. The man had made him sit down on one of the bench seats and then sat down right next to Roger, kinda shoving him all the way in, up against the window.

Which is what a grown-up does with a little kid when he doesn't want the boy to get up and wander around in a restaurant. Roger had understood the purpose of it. He was a prisoner, even though they were pretending that he was still a real boy.

Sitting with the plug thing up inside his bottom had been 3; Well, the word uncomfortable didn't really say it, but it didn't hurt every minute, exactly. Roger had looked up worriedly at the man as 'Uncle Charles' had settled down to read the old-fashioned menu.

Roger had gotten a glance and a knowing smile in return, and he'd understood that the man had liked what the plug was doing to his captive, keeping Roger aware of the fact that the boy had just gotten a grown-up dickie all the way up inside him.

Heck, there had probably been live sperm cells inside Roger's body, right at that very moment, wriggling around there, and though Roger hadn't been able to feel them doing it, he'd wondered what regular people might think if any of them had known that the restaurant had a kid sitting there – shifting a little bit from one side to the other, kinda aching from the presence of the red rubbery thing in his bottom – with enough of those little wormy things in him to maybe make a baby inside a woman's tummy.

Weird!

A lady lots older than Roger's mom had been came up to their table with a pad in her hand, and she'd smiled at Roger.

"Such a nice little boy," she'd said. "Not yours, Charlie? You've never been married as I remember."

"No, Miriam, not mine." The man had smiled back at her. "My cousin's kid. I'm stuck watching him overnight."

"At that 3; place?" The waitress lady's voice had gone low, and she'd looked worried, staring at Roger. "Surely, he's not being exposed to the, the things you do over there."

Jauntily, the man had shrugged. "We've already had one intake late this afternoon. We're processing him." He'd looked at Roger. "And you've been playing an important part in that, haven't you, Roger?"

Roger had hesitated for just a moment before he'd spoken. "Y-yes, sir. I, I never thought I'd ever see anything like what that slave boy is getting done to him."

"A boy, now?" the waitress had asked. "And how old is the little animal?"

Roger had glanced at the man before looking back up at the lady. "Eight, ma'am. Same as me."

"Oh, you're eight years old?" The waitress had shaken her head, smiling. "Why, you're not much bigger than my youngest granddaughter, and she just turned six."

Roger had been able to feel himself blushing. "Yeah, I was kinda the littlest guy in my class at school," he'd admitted.

"Well, you'll get your growth. Now what'll it be for you two big, strapping slavemasters?"

They'd gotten the chicken croquettes – with a child-sized portion for Roger, for which he'd been thankful. Roger had never had these 'croquette' things before, but the man was nice enough to cut up the one the lady had brought for him, on its bed of mashed potatoes, and though it had sure looked gross, it had turned out to be like a huge chicken nugget, only smooth inside, with the crust around it really crispy.

He'd even eaten the peas it came with ("They're fresh, kid," the man had said; "take at least a forkful and see how different they are"), and had three warm dinner rolls he'd cut open and buttered himself, just like a big guy. Roger had been kinda hoping for dessert, but instead the man had reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a little pill bottle.

The man had shaken out two little tablets and popped them in his mouth, chewing and swallowing. Then he'd looked at Roger, shrugged, and got a third pill out of the bottle. He'd handed it to the boy.

"Take it."

Roger hadn't wanted to, but the man had had that 'no nonsense' look in his eyes. He'd gotten the little white tablet in his mouth and got a really bitter orange taste when he'd crunched it. The man had had Roger's water glass ready to give it to Roger, and the boy had swallowed a mouthful gratefully.

"What, uh, was it, sir?"

The man had just tucked the pill bottle back into his pocket. "Something to get us through the next few hours, kid."

When they'd both finished their meal the man had used his pad to pay the waitress and had gotten up from his seat.

As Roger had slid out along the padded bench, the waitress lady had come over to be sociable, and she'd run her fingers through his hair and tilted his head back to look down at him. "Such a pretty little boy!" she'd said. Glancing at the man with a little grin, she'd said "He looks nothing like you, Charlie." Then back at Roger: "For which you should be grateful, little man."

"Uh, yes, ma'am."

She'd kinda hugged him against her apron. "Don't you have any bad dreams about what your uncle is doing to that slave boy, now. Remember, he's not a real human being. Just an animal who's getting what he deserves."

Roger had looked up at her. "Yes, ma'am. I know that. Everything he deserves."

The waitress had nodded with satisfation, and said to 'Uncle Charles' something about how nice it was to see such politeness in a child nowadays, and that Charlie's cousin was a lucky man to have such a quiet, respectful little boy like Roger.

"I'll tell him you said that, Miriam," the man had replied, and he'd led Roger back out to the car.

As the man had been strapping Roger into the restraints, the boy had started crying. "Master?" he'd asked softly. "Does everybody hate slaves the way that lady does?"

The man had paused for a moment, then went on with fastening the cuffs around Roger's ankles. "Yes, they do."

"But why?" Roger could feel the tears sliding down his cheeks, and he sniffled, trying to get the water out of his nose. "I didn't do anything bad! And the lady liked me when she didn't know I was a slave boy."

"They hate you because they can, 6-4-3-9." The man's face had turned grim. He'd slid out the padded head restraints on one side and then the other, and then he'd fastened the strap across Roger's brow again. "When we began having slaves again, it made free citizens special, more human than you animals, and they like that."

Roger had looked up at the man. "Do you like me being a slave, Master?"

The man had smiled. "Of course I do."

"But do you hate me for being a slave?"

At that, the man had laughed and closed the car door, walking around to get into the driver's seat. "I haven't got time to hate you personally, 6-4-3-9. I know what you are, and what your purpose is." He'd glanced over his shoulder at Roger with a satisfied smile. "And I enjoy the way you're suffering right now as you realize what you've lost, and what you're in for. I'm not being nice to you, boy. I'm torturing you. Haven't you realized that yet?"

Roger had broken down completely at that, sobbing like a baby, hating the man as the grown-up had watched him, knowing that the man was right, that Roger was a slave, and that as a slave Roger was good for nothing but having people do the sex to him, sex that hurt a boy, sex that made him nothing more than an animal for people to use.

The man had reached around in his seat to touch Roger's face with the fingertips of one hand, brushing up the tears with the backs of his knuckles, smiling at Roger with a sad expression on his face.

"Do you hate me for being a Master, little slave?"

Roger had hesitated just a little, sniffled, tried to speak, but he hadn't been able. As much as the restraint things would let him, though, he'd shaken his head.

"N-no, sir," he'd gotten out at last. "You can't help being a Master, can you?" When the man had gotten a tissue from somewhere and held it up to him, Roger had blown his nose, first one side as the man plugged the other nostril, then the opposite one, after which the man had wiped away what was left on Roger's lip.

"Thank you," Roger had said, automatically.

"You're welcome," the man had said, politely. Then they had looked at each other and Roger had realized that the man liked him. Maybe it was only as a slave, and that was just awful, but Roger had never had any grown up – outside his family – ever show any sign of liking him.

And now there was this stranger who had done the sex to him, hurting him awful bad with a big grown-up penis, a man who was going to hurt Roger even more, and the boy had known all of a sudden that the man really liked him.

Then the man had turned away from Roger, buckled his seat belt, and started the car. When they got back to the indoctrination place, the man had come around the back again and unfastened the cuffs and stuff, helping Roger get out of the car. Without even closing the door, the man had pulled the pale blue tee shirt up and over Roger's head and off, then he'd grabbed the waistband of the soccer shorts and pulled them down, too.

Roger had lifted one foot and then the other so that the man could get the shorts all the way off, keeping the flip-flops on his feet. His dickie had gone all the way stiff when the man had begun to strip him, though it hadn't really gone soft at any time since the plug thing had been pushed into his bottom. The shirt and the shorts had just been thrown onto the seat of the car before the man had closed the door and put one hand on Roger's smooth bare shoulder.

A little nudge, and the boy had begun walking across the darkened parking lot, naked for anybody to see, the feeling of the plug between his bottom cheeks and all the way up inside the opening there a dull aching sensation made worse by every careful, mincing step he took.

The man had opened the door, and Roger had just 3; gone inside. He'd thought about trying to run away, but where could he go? He hadn't known anybody in this town, and even if he had, how could he have found them, all naked and helpless the way the man had made him?

But even though he'd been embarrassed to be stripped again, there had been something about being naked that felt kind of 3; well, right, as if Roger had been getting used to the fact that he was a slave boy now, and a slave for the sex wasn't allowed to cover his Private Zone because he had to be ready for grown-up men to use him.

"Sir?" he'd asked as he'd followed the man over to the lockers and began taking up the man's shoes as the man had pulled them off, putting them in the bottom of the man's locker, the way you were taught to do in the conditioning center. "How come there are mostly boy slaves for the sex?" He'd hesitated, putting the man's socks into the shoes for him, and then waiting while the man unbuttoned his shirt to pull it off.

"Don't grown-up men like to do the sex with ladies?"

Almost all the sex magazines and vids that Roger had ever seen – glimpsed furtively in visits to friends' houses – had had pictures of women, either by themselves or with grown-up men. There were some with teenagers, more girls than boys, and a few with little kids, both kinds, but the woman-type stuff was what Roger had seen mostly.

Roger's mom, though, had been really strict about not letting Roger look at any of those magazines – woman or man or girl or boy – at home.

The man had pushed down his trousers, and Roger had gotten down on one knee to grab the cloth as the man drew one foot and then the other out of the cuffs.

"Most of them," the man had said. He'd smiled. "If most didn't like the ladies, how d'you think we'd get new little girls and boys like you?"

"Oh, from the breeder farms," Roger had replied, getting to his feet with the big trousers, and he'd hung them up in the locker on the side opposite the man's shirt.

By the time he'd done that, the man had taken off his white tee shirt and that had gone into the locker as well. Roger had known lots of boys and girls in school and in his neighborhood who hadn't gotten made inside their mommies' tummies. Ladies were bringing home 'farm babies' all the time, with parties for them and everything.

Lots of older girls and young women who were made into slaves, if they were healthy, got sent to the ranches where they spent their years having babies, until they were too old to do that anymore, and the doctors made sure that it took them a long time to get all worn out for that. Regular people got lots of babies from the breeder farms, though Roger's mom had gotten him the regular way, in the hospital.

Roger had been watching closely as the man had pulled down the waistband of his briefs, and the sight of the man's dickie and testicles and all that crinkly hair around the root of it – the same color as the hair on the rest of the man's muscle-y body, but bunched up like a storm cloud – had been really handsome, even though it had been pretty scary to remember what the man had done to Roger with that big penis.

It had been sticking forth a bit when the man had let it out of his underwear, and as Roger had watched, it'd been getting hard again, the head of it rising up and up to point at him. He'd looked up at the man's face, worried.

"S-sir?"

The man had chucked his briefs into the locker and closed it, then he'd turned to face Roger and take the boy's upper arms in his hands, smiling down at him.

"Of course I'm going to use you some more." He'd run the fingers of one hand through Roger's hair again, and without meaning to, Roger had moaned a little, kind of leaning into the man's hand, wanting to feel it more.

"Most of us who like the ladies like little boys your age and size for the sex, too. When slavery was restored, thousands of children became slaves, one way and another, and it became possible for men to pleasure themselves with you young ones." He'd chuckled. "There's not much useful work a child can do, right?"

Roger had nodded. The man had drawn Roger close against himself, the big dickie pressing against Roger's chest, rubbing just a little between their bodies as they breathed.

Roger was being hugged by a naked grown-up man who had done the sex all the way up inside Roger's bottom, and the man was going to do the sex to him some more.

Suddenly, Roger had become aware that his slave collar was still in the machine over on the counter, and that he looked just like a real boy, a free citizen, and a shudder of strangeness had run through him.

Could this have been the reason why this man had been so nice to Roger? Because Roger had still seemed to be a real human being? A kid whom no grown-up should do the sex to because it was against the law?

And thinking that, Roger had begun to cry again. Jeez, he was being such a baby!

Knowing that, of course, had just made Roger cry even harder. The man had picked Roger up so that he could look Roger right in the face, and Roger had just sobbed at his captor, not trying to hide his eyes, bawling like a toddler who'd had his Duplo blocks taken away or something.

"What's the matter now?" the man had asked, kind of half-smiling at the boy, which had made Roger a little bit mad as well as sad.

"Y-you don't really like me," Roger had blurted out. "You're only being nice to me because I'm not all the way a slave boy yet." He'd snorgled back on the snot that had built up with all his crying, and he hadn't been very surprised when the man had come up with a wipe into which he'd made Roger blow his nose.

This man had surely gotten a lot of experience with little boys crying out their despair and their helplessness.

"W-when I'm all the way a slave boy," Roger had stammered, "you're going to hate me just as much as that lady at the restaurant would, and I, I 3;" He'd hesitated, blinking at the man. "I like you so much!"

With that, Roger had put his face against the man's shoulder, closed his eyes, and just gave up to the awful, horrible feeling that he'd lost absolutely everything, including the nice grown-up man who'd done the first real sex to him ever.

"There, there!" Roger had felt the man patting him on his bare butt, kinda fiddling with the T-handle on the plug thing, and then patting him some more. When he'd been picked up, Roger had pulled up his knees and kinda wrapped them halfway around the man's middle, both arms all the way around the man's neck, holding on like anything, just wishing the man would keep on liking him, and just knowing that he couldn't have that.

The man had to hate Roger, hate him for being '6-4-3-9' and just a dirty little animal, not somebody a big, handsome grown-up man could like, and Roger wanted the man to like him, wanted it in a way he'd never wanted anything before.

He'd pushed himself up off the man's shoulder, looking into the man's eyes. "Please, Master. Please make me suck your dickie again, and, and do me in my bottom again." He'd been totally miserable, and he'd looked really stupid, he knew that.

"Just don't stop liking me, Master! Please, don't do that!"

The man had frowned at Roger, and there had been real anger in his expression.

"Do you think it matters whether I like you, slave?" The man's voice had gotten really harsh, making Roger shivery-scared. "You need to accept what is happening to you. None of it is just, none of it is kind, none of it has anything to do with what you might or might not have done. Do you understand this?"

Hesitantly, Roger had nodded. "Yes, sir," he'd said in a tiny voice.

"All of this is cruelty," the man had continued, almost embarrassed. "All of this is meant to make you suffer, to punish you, to break you down until people can use you for their pleasure without feeling anything for you. Do you understand this, slave boy? I don't have to like you, and you don't need me to like you."

But now the man looked like he was going to cry. What the heck?

"P-please, sir, don't, don't 3;"

"Don't what, slave boy?"

Roger hadn't been able to look him in the eye. "Don't feel bad, sir." He'd glanced up, miserable. "I didn't know, sir. Please don't be sad for me."

Grunting, the man had carried Roger over to one of the doctor-type tables, the high one, and he laid Roger on it, belly-up. From a shelf, the man had grabbed a coil of red rope and he'd tied a loop of it around Roger's left leg, just above the knee, and then he'd begun to wrap loops of it around and around the right leg and the left, the right and the left, while Roger had leaned up on his elbow, shocked and admiring, to watch him work. The man had finished up by wrapping the final part of the rope around and around the loops he'd made, and then knotting it neatly with the 'tail' of rope from the first knot he'd tied. With another length of the red cord, the man had repeated the job around Roger's ankles, so that at both places there were neat rows of rope like decorations that kept Roger's legs together.

Roger's heart had been hammering as the man had looked down at him for a long moment, and then the man had rolled Roger briskly onto his belly and grabbed both of the boy's hands, pulling them together in the small of Roger's back. More rope was used, around Roger's right wrist and then looping around his left, his right, his left, again and again until the final lengths went around and around the cords between his wrists to be knotted up snug there.

Then the man had picked Roger up and set the boy's feet on the floor, letting Roger lean back against the edge of the table. With one hand on the back of Roger's neck, the man had slid his other hand up and down the length of Roger's chest and belly and thighs, playing with Roger's stiffie and his testicles, running his fingertips all over Roger's face, staring into Roger's eyes.

"We're going to have ourselves another secret," the man had said. "Normally, this job isn't done by just one man. We like to get together for it. four or five big men and one helpless, naked little boy like you. This part of your indoctrination is meant to hurt you. It's supposed to be agony for you. Do you understand that? It's designed that way."

Terrified, Roger had nodded. "Y-yes, sir!"

The man's shoulders had slumped a little. "Well, I'm going to cheat. I've only done this a couple of times before, but this is a perfect opportunity for it." He'd tapped the top of Roger's right butt cheek. "This is where the slave tracking chip goes." His hand had then slid down the outside of Roger's right thigh. "And this is where yout slave mark tattoo goes. Both of them – especially the slave mark – are made so that they're painful as hell."

Then the man had grinned, and it wasn't a nice grin at all. "But I'm a sneaky bastard."

Roger had watched while the man brought out a bunch of stuff from different places in the room, including some things from the top shelf of the locker in which Roger had helped him hang his clothes.

The strangest thing had been a box of plastic food wrap. What the heck?

The man had opened another jar on the tabletop, along with some of those wooden tongue things doctors use, and then he'd turned Roger around so that Roger's left side was leaning against the edge table now. With one of the tongue sticks, the man had carefully spread creamy stuff from the jar on a patch of skin at the topmost part of the boy's right butt cheek, just to the rear of the tickle-spot where you could feel your hip crest. Then the man had applied the cream over a much bigger area on the side of that leg, from about the bottom of the butt cheek down about halfway to Roger's knee.

The place where a slave had his registration tattoo.

Chapter 9

Apparently satisfied, the man had put the lid back on the jar, picked up the food wrap, and unrolled it some.

"Okay," the man had commanded, "stand away from the table a little."

Roger had obeyed, balancing as best he could. Holding the end of the food wrap right above the crack in Roger's butt, the man had started wrapping the plastic around Roger's hips, making sure it didn't 'catch' Roger's hands, and around and down the length of Roger's thighs, almost to his knees and then back up again, around and around and around.

When the man had finished and he'd used a little knife to cut the roll of food wrap free, Roger had looked down to see his dickie – still stiff – wrapped tight against his belly, and it had been really tough for Roger to keep from giggling. He'd grinned at the man.

"This gunk is a local anaesthetic," the man had said. "These areas" he'd tapped the places on Roger's butt and his leg "will soak up the numbing agent. Takes about half an hour. It won't take away all the pain you're going to feel, but most of it. Understand?"

"Yes, sir." Roger had lost his grin at the reminder that he was going to get a needle and a tattoo. "I get the shots not to grow already, sir. Is it supposed to hurt as much as those?"

The man had nodded. "Yeah. There's a mix of chemicals with the implant chip that're supposed to be direct pain stimulants. Part of the secret, though, is that I don't have to mix those stimulants with the chip." He'd held up a little injection bottle. "Instead, I'm gonna use this stuff. It's another kind of local anaesthetic." He'd leered. "I got it from a veterinarian friend of mine. He uses it for stitching up people's pets who get lacerations."

"Uh, you're gonna use dog medicine on me?"

The man had shrugged. "Yeah, sure. You're an animal, aren't you?"

"Ooh, sir 3;"

The man had laughed.

The half-an-hour had gone much more quickly than Roger had thought it would, with the man touching and kissing Roger and playing with Roger's hair and eyebrows and stuff. The man had then put Roger belly-down on the table top, talking to him while preparing the chip and the numbing stuff in that big, scary needle.

The man had used a little knife to carefully slice the top part of the plastic wrap so that he could scrub the area of the shot for a long time with a bleach-smelling disinfectant, first with one bit of gauze, then with another, and then another..

"These chips have an eluting coat that kills infectious organisms," the man had explained, "but only a damned fool takes more chances than he has to. This is pretty much the same technique they used on the other side when you were a baby, and that turned out lucky, didn't it?"

Roger had nodded numbly, scared all to death, and he'd felt the man's thumb dig into the skin a little ways to one side of the stick-spot, pulling it to that side.

"It's what they call a Z-track technique," the man had said. "It's done this way to trap the chip down deep in your muscle." He'd grinned. "No chance that it could ever work it's way out of your cute little slave boy ass."

And then the man had stuck in the needle, which honestly hadn't hurt as much as a suppression shot usually did, letting go of the skin as he pulled the needle out.

"Th-that's it, sir?" Roger had looked over his shoulder at the man.

"Yep. Might be a little bit sore in the morning, but after two or three days, you'll forget about it completely. Now for the slave mark. More complicated."

Again the knife had been used, and Roger had been relieved of the plastic wrap completely.

"Over on your side," the man had commanded. "No, idiot, on your other side!" He'd begun to clean off the place on Roger's right thigh, first using something that smelled like vinegar – and was – and then something that had smelled like rubbing alcohol, but wasn't, quite.

"Okay, we want this to evaporate completely," the man had said, waving over Roger's leg with a piece of cardboard. "We want the adhesive to stick." He'd grimaced. "We only get one crack at this. To correct it, we'd need some fancy needlework, and that would hurt a helluva lot more."

Going over to the counter where Roger's slave collar had been put in the machine, the man had come back with a thick, floppy translucent sheet of plastic, and the man had been very clear about Roger holding still. The boy had been able to tell that the man was serious, because the man's dickie had gone completely soft.

And under the circumstances, that had scared Roger more than when it had been all hard and ready to shove into Roger's bottom.

His tongue between his teeth, the man had peeled off the backing sheets and carefully laid the plastic down on Roger's thigh, settling it just so, making sure that the cold moist stuff went where it was supposed to go without wrinkles or bubbles or anything like that.

"Sir?"

"Yeah?"

"H-how do you do this if the kid won't stay still?"

"We knock him out," the man had said. "Shut up, please."

"Yes, sir!"

Finally, the man had looked up at Roger. "Got it. Let's give it a couple of minutes, but I don't think it can go anywhere."

"Can I move a little, sir?"

"Yeah, but not much, okay?" Then the man had grinned at Roger and he'd reached over to rummage his fingers through Roger's hair. Why did grown-ups always want to play with your hair when you were a redhead? "This is still going to hurt, you know."

"Y-you couldn't knock me out for it, sir?"

The man had laughed really loud at that. "Not a chance."

While Roger had lifted up his head and twisted his neck to watch, the man had attached a couple of thin black wires to opposite corners of the plastic sheet, and then plugged the other ends into sockets in a machine on the other side of the table. Then the man had rolled Roger over onto his tummy and had carefully pulled the plug thing out from inside the boy, which had made Roger gasp and lift up his bottom and groan. It had felt almost like taking a poop, and that had been embarrassing even to think about.

Roger had watched the man put the shiny red bullet-thing on a nearby shelf and come back with a bottle of thick liquid, some of which the man had poured into the folds between Roger's bottom cheeks, the way somebody wanting to mess with you at the beach would pour suntan lotion there. It had been cold that way, too.

The man had worked the lotion into the crevice slowly, smiling down at Roger, making sure the stuff got down behind Roger's testicles and up along the opening to Roger's bottom, and it had been obvious to Roger that this was a sex thing that the man was doing because the man's dickie had gone all the way hard again.

Rolling Roger onto his left side again, the man had gotten onto the table, his belly to Roger's belly, and the man had lifted the boy up to slide that big penis into the space between Roger's legs, right snug up against Roger's testicles and the root of Roger's dickie. Getting onto his back with Roger on top of him now, the man had used one hand to pull Roger's head down snug against the hairy, firm muscles of the man's chest while the other had held Roger's tied-together wrists.

"There," the man had said, letting up on the back of Roger's neck so that the boy could raise his head and look at the man.

"The phoresis takes about forty or fifty minutes," the man had explained. "It's not just the pattern that you can see and scan with a laser, but the coded memory molecules driven down through your skin, deep into your flesh." He'd smiled. "My cock between your legs provides an enhanced ground. Without that, the process would take almost twice as long, and even without the local anesthetic, this is something I wouldn't be allowed to do for you if the supervisor were here. Understand?"

Roger had nodded.

"One thing," the man had added. "Some of the pain you're going to be feeling I'm going to be feeling, in my cock and in my balls" The man had bent his neck to give Roger a kiss on the forehead. "It's not going to hurt me as much as it hurts you, but I want you to know that the pain is part of the sex for me. Love the pain, slave boy. Here it comes."

Then the man had reached over to the machine and flicked a switch, and Roger had learned why the man had tied him up so well, and was holding Roger with his hands and even one ankle hooked around Roger's legs.

The pain!

Roger hadn't thought he was going to scream, but he did, the sound of it echoing from the tiled walls of the room. Writhing, squirming, gasping, Roger hadn't been able to help working himself up and down on the big penis caught between his thighs, grinding his own stiffie into the scratchy hair just above the root of the man's cock, feeling it get slippery as the lotion had trickled down into the space.

The man had held Roger's head down against himself, strong, strong! His eyes screwed tight shut, Roger had sputtered, whimpered, gasped as the pain seemed to surge and surge against his leg, through his leg, into his dickie and – he could tell! – into the man's beautiful, strong, hard penis, the penis that was helping Roger get through this pain, the kind of a penis that Roger would never be allowed to grow for himself because Roger had been made a slave boy whose helplessness was being driven into his whole body by the machine, marking him bone-deep with the kind of agony a kid could never forget.

Oh, the man had been sharing the pain with Roger. Roger had opened his eyes, looked up at the man, whose face had been set in hard lines as the man had met the boy's gaze, wincing as Roger had sobbed, the boy's dickie shoving against the man's belly even as the man's big cock had pushed up between Roger's tight, slippery legs.

Then Roger had had the good feelings, in spite of the pain – or because of the pain? – the man holding him, keeping Roger down upon the big, strong body of the man, forcing Roger to stay there as the spasms of sex swamped the boy, then seized him again, and again, and again!

How many times could the good feelings come for a boy? Roger hadn't known, and even though the memory of those minutes had come back for him in his nightmares, he couldn't have kept count. All he'd known was that it had been forever, never stopping, somewhere in there feeling the man's release, shoving harder and harder againat Roger to make the warm sperm squirt between Roger's bottom cheeks, the man's fingers holding the big penis tight up against Roger's flesh, not inside him but still making Roger know that a slave boy is made for the sex with a grown-up man, made for it!

Roger had never fainted before, but when he'd awakened a long time later, he'd figured that it had happened to him. He'd still been atop the man's body, and the man's penis was still – amazingly! – hard up against the place where Roger's dickie-roots were, and Roger's dickie had gone all the way hard again the moment he'd realized that.

Gosh, could the sex feelings ever stop?

Groaning, the man had held Roger close and kind of half-rolled to reach the machine with his other hand, flipping the switch off in spite of the fact that it had obviously stopped running.

"Are, are we done, sir?"

"We'd better be," the man had said. "Gawd, you're a helluva lot of work." The man had reached down onto Roger's leg to take off the wires, and then he'd rolled some more to get up, his penis sliding out from between Roger's thighs and shifting the boy so that Roger had wound up sitting on the man's lap, both of them covered in sweat and lotion and sperm stuff.

Roger had rubbed his nose against the man's chest, his wrists still tied behind his back.

"Th-thank you, sir," he murmured. He'd looked up. "If it hurts that much the way you did it, helping me, what's it like for the other boys? And the girls?"

The man had shrugged. "Pretty damned bad. They're restrained, four-point and chest strap, maybe a belly band besides. Bite gags, too. Almost all of 'em pass out after the first five or ten minutes, thank God."

"The sex part was 3; scary, sir." Roger had blinked up at the man. "I thought I was gonna die. Not because of the pain, but because of the sex feelings."

That had made the man smile. "So the earth did move for you, eh?"

"Sir?"

"Old joke, kid."

Not understanding, Roger had just nodded and closed his eyes, leaning against the man and shuddering as he felt the man's fingers close gently but firmly around the boy's stiffie.

After a bit, Roger had looked up at the man who had done all these awful things to him, and he'd realized that he wasn't angry any more. Roger hadn't even particularly wanted the man to untie him. It had been kinda like it was right for Roger to be completely helpless in the man's hands, and it had been making him feel safe to have the man touching him all over, kissing Roger now and then, both of them calming down.

But it had had to end. Groaning and grumbling, the man had finally got up and put Roger belly-down on the tabletop to untie the boy's wrists, then he'd flipped Roger over to get the ropes off his legs and his ankles. Roger had inspected his wrists and all, surprised to find almost no rope marks. When he'd played 'tie-up' games with his friends, there had almost always been marks.

Finally, the man had carefully drawn the thick plastic away from Roger's thigh, and there had been the slave mark, dark letters and numbers and bar code on the pale flesh of the redheaded little boy, leaving both Roger and the man to study it, the man with obvious satisfaction, the boy with stark horror.

"I'm really a slave boy now, right?" Roger's own voice had sounded hollow to him somehow, and the man had looked at him sharply.

"You were really a slave long before they walked you in here, 6-4-3-9." The man had run one hand up and down the side or Roger's neck. "You could never have escaped then, and you'll never escape now. Understand?"

Miserably, Roger had nodded. The man had gotten to his feet, had gone over to the counter, and had lifted Roger's collar out of the machine, open and ready to go around Roger's neck.

Roger had stood up, facing the man, his face a mute appeal for a mercy that no one could ever grant him. The man had simply shaken his head, and he'd walked over to a low four-legged stool near one end of the high table, beckoning Roger to follow. Each of them had been naked, each with a hard proof of his maleness for the other to see, but only one of them was a slave.

"Take my cock in your hands," the man had commanded, and hesitantly, Roger had obeyed, feeling the stickiness of the drying sperm all over it.

"Kneel, and suck it, slave."

Blinking back his tears, Roger had settled himself on the little step, which had put his face at the proper height to guide the man's big penis into his mouth. His face burning with shame, Roger had begun moving his head back and forth, tasting the warm flesh, breathing in the scent of the man's body.

"Hands at your sides," had come the command, "and keep sucking."

Eyes closed, the feeling of the handsome hardness between his lips and on his tongue and against the roof of his mouth, Roger had balanced himself obediently, his hands open at his waist on either side, shoulders rolled back and his palms forward, knowing somehow that he had to offer himself like this to the man, the way he had offered himself in play games with other boys, feeling the anguished thrill of surrender.

Roger had felt the cold metal of the collar settle against the back of his neck, had sensed the front half coming closed, had heard the "click" of the teeth meeting, and then – moaning in despair as he'd held the man's penis in his mouth – he had felt the solid clack-clunk! of the lock closing and the weight of the steel all around his throat.

His eyes still closed, the tears trickling down Roger's cheeks, his hands still at his sides, Roger had felt the man's fingers in his hair, then holding his head as the man had begun moving his big, strong body back and forth, the penis sliding in and out of Roger's mouth, not going in far enough to choke the boy, but never coming altogether out, silently guiding Roger in the sucking, then the hands holding Roger's head still as the man had begun to use Roger, the way Jackie Tedesco and Roger's other friends had used him in the long-ago days when Roger had been a real boy, and Roger had realized that he wanted this, the feeling of being good for nothing but the sex-pleasure of a grown-up man.

I'm a slave boy! Roger had thought to himself, feeling both degradation and exultation at the same instant. For now and forever, a slave! Oh, God, make me good for the sex! He's making the sperm for me! In my mouth, the sperm cells!

And the warm liquid had spurted over Roger's tongue for the very first time, proof that Roger was a slave boy, helpless and obedient, broken to the will of his Masters, swallowing and sucking, sucking and swallowing, making the power of the man a part of his own naked body forever and ever.

Chapter 10

All of the other slave boys in the classroom with the DM and the teenage visitor had been through pretty much everything Roger had gotten done to him in the indoctrination center, and probably a whole lot worse than anything that had happened when Roger had been hurt so much with the slave mark.

I mean, could you even imagine how much more horrible it was for a guy to have the tattoo done to him without a sneaky bastard like 'Uncle Charles' to put his big dickie between your legs and make the punishment not hurt so much, and be shorter?

Poor 1-4-3-7, that 'Jimmy' kid, had to still be having nightmares from it, if it was only a few months since he'd been through indoctrination. Roger was sure having them, right?

Roger guessed that watching the visitor holding the back of Jimmy's head while the shut-eyed slave boy sucked the big penis really was a kind of a lesson.

When you were the boy getting the sex done to you, there was a lot of stuff you couldn't see. Because, of course, you were busy, getting the sex done to you. Even when you were in a sex room with another slave – in one of those 'four-way' sessions – you weren't given much of a chance to settle back and watch another slave and a client having the sex together.

And watching vids was – well, watching vids. This was something you could really see and hear and even smell, even reach over and touch.

The teenager named Alan was really good-looking. Seeing him made Roger remember the big guys in the county Free Citizens' Militia all the kids used to see in the park and around the neighborhood, high-school students who were cadets working hard to get their certificates, which would let most of them go right into the Army or the Navy or the Slave Authority or the Marine Corps for advanced training and active service.

A few of the really smart ones went to college, but almost all the grown-up men Roger had ever met had done a 'hitch' in the services. The men and the ladies who ran the conditioning centers were all Slave Authority, and even the grown-up slaves who worked in the centers were trained-up and tough and you'd better 'yes, sir' and 'yes, ma'am' them.

That servitor guy who'd helped rescue Paul-2 had been just exactly like that.

Alan was using 1-4-3-7 real carefully, Roger could see. When a client wanted to just do a kid, the grown-up would shove his dickie into your mouth without caring whether or not it made you gag. In the indoctrination center, Roger had learned how to get the 'deep throat' thing done to him, sometimes with a special kind of gag that held your teeth way apart so that you didn't even have a chance to stop it.

A couple of times in the indoctrination center, all of the men who'd been working there, plus a couple of slave cops and – Roger was pretty sure – a couple of civilian-type visitors had used Roger really special super hard in one of those 'gang rape' sessions. They'd even tied Roger up for a couple of those, which had been stupid because how the heck was one little kid going to fight back against seven or eight grown-up men?

But Roger had long since learned that grown-ups liked 'tie-up' games for the sex as much as boys do.

They'd even blindfolded Roger for a couple of those gang rape games, and they'd made Roger guess which one of the men had been using his big dickie in Roger's mouth or in his bottom at any particular time, giving Roger a lash of the quirt every time the boy made a mistake on the guessing.

In the mouth, Roger had discovered, you really could tell which grown-up man you were sucking after you'd tasted him a couple of times (though not so much if they used that stupid 'open-mouth' gag on you). In your bottom, though, you had to have him shoving in and out for a while, because it was the way a grown-up did you that was important.

Roger had thought that if there was anything you learned in your weeks at an indoctrination center, it was that no matter how mean a grown-up was to you in the sex, it probably wouldn't make you die.

I mean, if the grown-ups didn't want to make you die. Roger remembered those two strangers and what they'd been doing to Paul-2, and thought about what happened to free kids who'd gotten kidnapped and didn't get found again until after they were dead.

Grown-ups who liked to do sex to little boys (especially the sex that hurt a little boy, or grossed you out) were weird, but Roger could understand that, kinda. The sorts of grown-ups who liked to kill a little boy were just plain rotten bad, and whenever Roger thought about those kinds of grown-ups, he also thought about that servitor guy, the rescuer, and Roger wondered if maybe he were ever allowed to grow up, how he could become like that grown-up slave, strong and fast and brave.

Roger would really like that. Saving little slave boys from mean men.

Watching the teenager from the side like this, Roger could study the way Alan balanced on his knees, straddling 1-4-3-7's body, moving just a little the way a guy kinda had to move when he was getting his dickie sucked, the longest part of Alan's dickie still outside of the slave boy's mouth.

No 'deep throat,' Roger observed, and that kinda disappointed him. Roger was pretty sure that this Jimmy kid could take the whole of that teenager's penis all the way. A guy probably couldn't get through an indoctrination center without getting that done to him a bunch. But this Alan guy really liked 1-4-3-7, and when a grown-up really liked you, Roger supposed, he didn't want to give you the kind of sore throat that really punching a great big penis into a kid's mouth did to you.

Still, it would've been awfully sexy to watch that, wouldn't it?

The visitor eased his dickie out of the slave boy's mouth and lowered Jimmy's head onto the folded-up towels, the kid's eyes shining with tears as Jimmy looked up at his friend's face.

Now, Roger figured that if this were really supposed to be a demonstration of how a slave boy could get a client done with the sex super-fast, 1-4-3-7 wouldn't just be laying there like a dope, crying. He should be up and touching the client and maybe kissing the grown-up all over, and playing with that nice big dickie and the rest of the client's Private Zone stuff.

Which Roger would've been glad to do, no problem, but he knew that the DM would jump his butt with both feet if he did.

The visitor shifted to get Jimmy out from between his legs, folding up the slave boy's knees and hips and generally putting the kid in position to get a butt full of nice, big teenage penis, and despite the fact that 1-4-3-7 was probably even more experienced at getting the sex done to him than Roger was, the kid was glancing right and left at the faces of the other slaves (all of them watching interestedly) and blushing with embarrassment.

Well, Roger had to admit, it was kind of embarrassing to have seven other boys watching you get done with the sex, each of them qualified to tell if you were messing up your part in the old in-and-out. He suddenly wondered if there were ever live sex shows, where client-type free people could sit and watch somebody using a sex slave on a stage or something, like in a play.

That made Roger remember the school plays he'd sat through, and the ones in which the teachers had made Roger play parts. Imagine a play, right there in front of you, with kids getting real sex done to them! Wow.

Now, what might happen if the people running this comfort complex were to out to the schools to do a 'show-and-tell' for the kids in their classrooms?

Roger tried to picture in his mind the DMs bringing in four or five sex slaves – maybe a grown-up man and a woman, a couple of boys and a girl – all naked but chained and plugged and 'packaged' (the lady slave with those stainless steel clip-on things covering the nipples on her boobies) to show all the good little students what these animals look like?

Maybe do demonstrations, where the DMs or some nice clients use the slaves in some of the ways that visitors enjoy at the comfort complex.

Roger had to try hard not to grin about it when he thought of the ways that the kids in his old class might respond if they could watch a cute little guy like 1-4-3-7 getting the 'gang rape' done to him by a couple of DMs and maybe four or five of the kids' own fathers.

The visitor was holding up Jimmy's bottom with both hands, the weight of the kid's body almost entirely on 1-4-3-7's shoulders as the teenager bent over to kiss the place where he was going to put that nice, grown-up stiffie of his.

Roger had been startled all to heck the first time one of the DMs at the indoctrination center had put a tongue into Roger's bunny-hole. He'd already had some grown-up dickies in it, and two or three different kinds of those plug things, too, but getting tasted down there had been some kinda really strange when it had first happened.

It was really, really nice to get it done to you, but Roger still didn't have the guts to ask anybody to do it to him. He wouldn't mind doing it to another boy, or even a girl-slave (he'd done it, too!) but Roger still thought that doing the tongue-in-the-bottom thing to a grown-up was almost as bad as putting your mouth on a lady's cunny. Free people didn't cleanse, and that made their backdoor holes just 3; so gross you didn't want to think about it, right?

Roger still figured that when he got a grown-up doing it to him, he might be expected to do it back. He hadn't been told to do it yet, but fair's fair 3;

But for a show-and-tell in front of a bunch of kids in school? Real boys and girls?

Oh, heck, Roger would do that. If Roger could pick out a grown-up from the audience and bring the guy up to the front of the classroom, Roger would even kneel down in front of the guy to do the dickie-sucking to the stranger until just before he got the man to pull out and squirt the sperms all over Roger's face.

You could do that, if you had enough practice to know when the sperms were gonna spurt, and though it was awfully messy, Roger would bet that it would make all of his old school friends freak out completely if they could get to see it.

Watching the teenager tongue-teasing Jimmy's bottom as the slave boy moaned and wriggled ever-so-little, his smooth legs folded and quivering in the air overhead, Roger thought about how if he got to do that show-and-tell, he'd insist on getting called '6-4-3-9,' as if there had never been anybody named 'Roger' in their class, making sure that all of them had to see his slave mark and his collar.

You could be proud of your slave mark, if you knew how much it hurt to get one put on you. Roger had glanced around at the other slave boys in the classroom, knowing that each of them had also the same reason to be proud – not ashamed! – of what those marks proved about them. You might be a slave boy, and good for nothing but getting the sex done to you in ways that hurt you, or disgusted you, or made you feel like dirt, but you were good enough for that, weren't you?

But that kind of a show-and-tell couldn't happen. Roger knew that the kids' moms would never sign the permissions for that kind of thing. He almost shrugged at the thought of it. Moms were such a pain in the neck about stuff like that.

The visitor had 1-4-3-7's bottom down, kind of in the kneeling teenager's lap, still looking at Jimmy's face like it was the most beautiful boy's face in the whole world. The kid's feet and knees were wide apart, and with one hand Alan was holding his penis to put it into Jimmy's opening. Because slave boys had to wear the buttplug things almost all the time, Roger knew that the entryway was going to be pretty easy to penetrate.

Poor 1-4-3-7 was just laying there, kind of dazed, his arms flopped back on the floor either side of his head, just like a completely helpless little kid, looking up at the visitor as if the big, tanned teenager was the most handsome grown-up in the world

"Oh, Alan," the kid was saying, his voice so low that Roger doubted that the DM at the front of the classroom could hear it. "I'm so sorry!"

"Sorry?" The visitor had settled the tip of his dickie right in the place where he wanted it to go, and he was lifting the slave boy's hips, shifting the angle. "Sorry for what, Jimmy?"

"Because I'm not who you think I am!"

Well, that got the big guy's attention. The good-looking teenager stared down at the kid, frowning hard. "What do you mean?" The big penis was poised right at the opening of the youngster's bottom, in a way that Roger knew a boy could feel, big and heavy and threatening, but not yet coming into you.

The kind of feeling that made you want to beg "Just do it! Just please get it over with!"

Still just lying there (I mean, just begging to get that hard dickie up his bottom, for Pete's sake!) 1-4-3-7 was crying so hard he could barely speak.

"I'm, I'm dead!" the kid wailed. "Dead! When they ripped off my clothes, when they put this thing around my neck –" Jimmy touched his slave collar "– I died! They took me away and for weeks they did things to me, made me do things myself, and they killed me, Alan! Over and over again. Everything I used to be, they, they killed me! And now I'm here, for the clients to use, and nobody loves me anymore!"

A really pitiful sniffle. "I'm not the boy you think I am, not anymore! I'm just an, an animal! Only good for grown-ups to use, to get their rocks off, to beat and bully and torture and, and 3; oh, I'm nothing anymore, Alan! Can't you understand that? I'm nothing, no good for you, no good for anybody but those people, the ones who hate little kids and use us slaves to make their hatred hurt somebody."

Flat on his back (well, his knees and hips were kinda folded, and his butt was up a little in the teenager's hands), 1-4-3-7 had just said everything Roger had been thinking about himself, about what had happened to him, too, since that day in the courtroom. Sure, not every grown-up had been absolutely horrible to Roger, but they all really liked hurting him with the sex. You could tell, right? And grinding him down, and making him feel like all of this was what Roger really, truly deserved, just for being a slave.

Of course, that was incredibly sexy, too, in a really nasty kinda way, and kneeling there sitting on his heels, Roger was more aware than ever of the buttplug inside his bottom, and it was just a regular plug. Not one of either the 'punishment' or the 'reward' ones (which were real punishment if a DM put it in you and then made you exercise, 'cause it could make a guy go through absolute agony with the good feelings even if you didn't touch your dickie at all).

I mean, how could a guy run if you were having those orgasm things happening to you? And then the DM would quirt you, or slap you, and then throw you in the deep end of a swimming pool or something else to 'cool you off.'

Grown-ups!

This Alan guy looked down real angry at 1-4-3-7, putting the kid's butt down and leaning all the way over the boy's body, big and strong and sleek with the kind of muscle you saw on clients who did lots of martial arts or who worked out at your regular conditioning center back home (not the little one that was part of the comfort complex, just for the slaves and the DMs) every doggone day.

That made it obvious how little 1-4-3-7 was, and how helpless the boy was, too. Roger knew that Jimmy was no namby-pamby in conditioning himself. Roger had seen the kid doing the rope climbing and working with the exercise machines and running around the track and swimming and all the rest of it, and 1-4-3-7 was pretty strong and fast for a youngster kept small by the no-grow shots.

"Shut up, slave!" said the teenager in a low, growly voice. "Filthy, dirty, worthless little animal. Ugly and stupid and clumsy. How could you possibly know what you're good for, or who you're good for?"

The visitor had his hands on 1-4-3-7's shoulders by now, big, strong, suntanned hands that looked really different against the kid's kinda pale skin.

"It's what a Master desires that's important, slave. Understand that? Not what you think – if you dare to think at all – but what the Master decides." A pause. "Talk, you empty-headed excuse for a human being! Do you understand?

"Y-yes, Master!" gasped Jimmy, his eyes gone wide, obviously scared.

"I look at you and I tell you what I choose to see, what you are in my eyes, and nothing else matters. Do you understand that?

Again, 1-4-3-7 nodded, really quick.

"Very good." The teenager leaned in really close to the slave boy's face, practically nose to nose. "I see in you the same little pain in the ass who bugged me from practically the day he got out of diapers and started wandering into my back yard. The same clinging, pestering, constantly talking snot-nose who was always waiting on my front doorstep when I got home from school, who tagged along wherever I went, who never left me alone with my regular friends, who scared the hell out of me whenever he got sick or got hurt, who practically moved into my bedroom – into my bed every night, damnit! – every week-end during the school year and every day every summer.

"For years, every time I turned around I saw that same stupid little kid. I couldn't stand still without him walking up the heel of my shoe, I couldn't run without him keeping pace, I couldn't take a shower without him getting in with me, I couldn't find a clean pair of socks or a tee-shirt or a pair of underpants in my bedroom because he'd grown to be as big as I was and he was wearing them."

The visitor glowered. "You getting the message, slave boy?"

1-4-3-7's voice was very small. "I, uh, liked wearing your underpants, Alan." He sniffled. "I'm sorry! It made me feel good to know you'd been wearing them, y'know?"

"Yeah, I figured that out." The big Militia cadet raised one eyebrow. "You kept leaving your own underpants behind, and your mom always bought you those old-man-looking plaid boxer shorts. I hadda wear those things to the conditioning center a bunch of times."

The slave boy flashed a little grin – just for an instant – up at the visitor.

Who frowned down at him. "And you planned it that way, didn't you?"

"I, I wanted them to see you in my underwear, Alan. Kinda like they should know, y'know?"

"Yeah, that I had an eight-year-old crushing on me."

1-4-3-7 tried to get up a little, but of course the teenager had too good a grip on his shoulders. "I didn't crush on you!" he insisted. "I, uh, liked you." There was a moment, and then the kid's voice went really low. "I guess I still do." He blinked up at the visitor. "I still think about you when I've got a grown-up doing me, Alan. I close my eyes and try to imagine it's you instead of him, and then it's not so bad."

The teenager looked surprised. "What d'you mean? I never did anything like that to you. Besides, we had to quit messing around – just the regular stuff that everybody does – when they stopped my shots." He cleared his throat a little, glanced at Roger, leaned down close to Jimmy's ear, but Roger could still hear him.

"My first wet-cum, y'know, when I was jerking off? I was thinking about you. Stupid, isn't it?"

1-4-3-7 gave him a little shake of the head. "Really?" The boy gave his captor just a little smile. "That's nice, I guess."

The teenager shifted his hands to grab 1-4-3-7's chest, his thumbs spreading out over where the titties would be if Jimmy had been a woman and not a boy, and he shook the kid just a little.

"Look, stupid," he said, "here –" and he gave 1-4-3-7 another shake "– you're the same person you ever were. And here –" his hands gentle now, moving up to hold Jimmy's head, one hand on the back of it, the other along the side of 1-4-3-7's face "– you're the same, too. The same, you got that? Every bit of the same kid who's been in my grill, practically 24-7, for most of his life."

Even though Alan was holding onto Jimmy's head, the kid nodded. "Yes, Master."

"And now I'm going to fuck that little kid, right up the ass, because now he's a slave, and a slave boy can't say 'no' when a Master wants to use him. Do you understand that, too?"

"Oh, yes, Master!" 1-4-3-7 blinked up at the visitor, scared but kinda fascinated. Well, slave boys – like all kids – were strictly forbidden to use bad language, particularly the F-bomb, though a client could order a slave boy to talk dirty if that made the sex better for the client.

It still embarrassed the heck out of Roger when that happened, and he didn't do the dirty words at all well, which he pretty quickly figured was a big part of the reason why a lot of the clients who insisted on that stuff commanded it. They liked making a little guy embarrassed.

Though dirty words were a heckuva lot better than when they made you do baby-talk. Calling your dickie a 'pee-pee' and your bottom a 'bum-bum' and stuff like that.

Did I mention that grown-ups were weird?

1-4-3-7 must have figured out that Alan wanted him to just lie there and take it. Lots of clients liked using a boy that way, and it was kinda nice for the boy, too, when you could pretend that you were totally in a grown-up's power, all weak and helpless and not wanting that big old penis going into your bottom.

Which was sure as the dickens not true for 1-4-3-7, was it? If Roger had ever seen a slave boy who wanted to get it up inside himself, it was this Jimmy kid.

Roger glanced at the DM at the front of the classroom, and saw that the man was still concentrating on his pad. Must've been reading a book or something. None of the other slave boys were zoning out or anything, though. All of them were older and more experienced than Roger (or 1-4-3-7, for that matter) but this business was obviously pretty new to them, too. A client in one of the classrooms? Doing the sex to a slave boy he used to know when the kid was a real boy? Too strange!

The teenager had gotten Jimmy's hips in his hands again, and was doing the tongue business to 1-4-3-7's bottom again, making the kid whimper with embarrassment (and pleasure, pretty obviously) as he watched his grown-up best friend doing something neither of them would've even dreamed about a year or two before.

Chapter 11

It was pretty clear to Roger that whatever else had been happening to that big, tough-looking Militia cadet, he must have been awfully busy at the comfort complex wherever 1-4-3-7 had used to live. This was definitely not a guy who was inexperienced at doing the sex to a slave boy.

Had 1-4-3-7 figured that out yet? Well, yeah, he must have. Didn't the kid mention how unhappy he'd been when his friend had gotten grown-up enough to start going to 'the comfort place' back in whatever town they both had used to live?

But sometimes when you didn't want to think about something, you just plain didn't think about it. Maybe that was happening with 1-4-3-7.

Suddenly, the visitor shifted 1-4-3-7 off to his right and plunked the boy down in front of the dark-haired older slave boy on that side.

"Suck him," the teenager ordered. "Make him cum."

Well, the older-than-he-looked slave boy 'assistant' didn't do more than blink at that, and moved in on 1-4-3-7 real smooth, spreading the younger kid's knees apart and getting a sleek, warm boy-butt cheek in each hand as he bent low and used his lips to peel back the skin covering the little guy's stiffie before taking it all the way into his mouth. 1-4-3-7 gasped as his eyes went wide, feeling a strong, skillful tongue start working on his boner.

Then the visitor pivoted toward Roger.

"Get me wet, slave boy. Use your mouth."

Roger hesitated, caught the look in the teenager's hard, glittering eyes, and Roger couldn't help groaning a little as he nodded, kinda knee-walking closer and bending to get himself low enough so that he could take it in his hands, guide it, and put his mouth on the big guy's up-angled penis. It looked and smelled and – yeah, that, too – tasted so sexy!

They taught you how to do the get-it-ready sucking in the indoctrination center, which meant you didn't really suck the grown-up at all, the way you would if he wanted you to make him do the sperms in your mouth. You only used your tongue to spread the saliva around all over it, keeping your lips snug to make sure you didn't drool.

Roger's one big worry whenever he'd done this had always been that he wouldn't have enough spit to get the job done, but there was something that made his mouth water even when he just thought about sucking a grown-up's dickie, like he was hungry for it or something – and wasn't that just totally sick?

Grown-up dickies had been scary when Roger had been made a slave boy, and he had to admit that some of them – not really the dickies themselves so much, but the men who had them – still scared him. This teenager's stiffie, though, didn't scare Roger, and he didn't think it ever would. Like a lot of teenagers, this fellow's dickie had a lot of growing to do yet, along with the rest of him. Already tall and handsome, Alan was going to get taller still, and probably lots more handsome. Roger could tell that the guy was hardly even shaving yet.

Nice dickie, too, Roger thought, closing his eyes as he did the sucking, automatically trying to memorize the feeling of it, the taste, and how the big visitor smelled down in his warm, kinda sweaty crotch.

But why memorize anything about him? This big stranger had come here from far away, he was going to do the sex to 1-4-3-7, and then he was going back to where he'd come from, and that was all that was gonna happen. And that thought made Roger kinda sad, because he was already getting to like the muscle-y teenager. The guy sure liked 1-4-3-7, and a grown-up who was kind and nice to one slave boy was almost always that way with all the other kids remanded to the complex.

"Okay, Red," said the visitor in a low voice. The big hands pushed Roger's head back and away, and Roger only gave in to it reluctantly, with a little moan of frustration. It was an awfully nice dickie, no doubt about it. Maybe this grown-up was one of those guys who took a shot or somthing to get his hard-on back right away, and he'd want another slave boy to do with the sex. Like all the rest of the guys in the class, Roger had cleansed before coming over to the conditioning center, and he knew he was okay for getting a load of sperms up his bottom.

It could happen, couldn't it?

Looking at the glistening big penis – shining and slippery with Roger's own saliva – he had to fight down an impulse to grin, to giggle. Even when he'd been doing nothing but regular old sex play with other kids his own age and size, Roger had known somehow that the sex was serious, that you didn't act like a grab-ass little baby.

I'm eight years old now, he thought determinedly. I'm too old and I've done too much real, honest-to-criminey sex to act like a Kindergarten kid. He wanted the visitor, the DM, and especially 1-4-3-7 to see that Roger respected the man-sex that was happening here, sex that was going to make the teensy wriggling sperms spurt out of a grown-up's body and become part of the body of a pretty little boy slave, the way a guy like 1-4-3-7 is supposed to get used, for taking the sperms inside him.

The visitor got 1-4-3-7 lined up again for the penis-pushing, and yet again it seemed like the sandy-haired slave boy and the blonde Militia cadet had made everybody else in the world disappear for each other, the way a grown-up man and the lady he really, truly, yuck-ily lo-o-oves are supposed to be doing in one of those sloppy, boring romance vids.

But it made you almost wanna yack when you had to watch this kind of stuff in those romance vids. Here? With this big guy and the little slave boy (who was, let's remember, bigger and stronger than Roger, doggone it!) it was kinda makes-you-wanna-cloud-up-and-cry-a-little nice, wasn't it?

Like these two should be doing the sex with each other every day and twice a day on the week-ends, like Mr. Gregory back home had used to say.

This time the big guy's penis went right in, like halfway up the kid's bottom, and 1-4-3-7 gasped out an "Ow!" and his eyes went wide with the pain of it.

Like 1-4-3-7 wasn't used to having grown-up dickies shoved in there real fast? Sheesh.

The slave boy was crying again, not making much noise, blinking up at the visitor but not even moving his hands to wipe the tears away, like he couldn't or something. Roger realized that 1-4-3-7 was being 'passive', pretending that he was totally helpless, that the client could do anything to him, no matter how much it hurt, and he wouldn't do anything to get away or even make it hurt less.

It was like Roger's 'English butler' game, but even more slave-like, and Roger had to admit that it was sexy as the dickens, no matter how you looked at it. Heck, it sure seemed to be sexy for the client, didn't it? That Alan guy looked almost kinda like he was drunk or something, moving his body like a machine, the muscles working under his dark-tanned skin, the eyes gleaming, the face hot with excitement.

And, of course, that big penis moving like a piston, all the way in, almost all the way out, doing the 'long stroking' thing lots of grown-ups did when they were showing a slave boy (and themselves) how powerful a grown-up is when he's doing the sex to a little kid.

For all the imaginings and the confused stories that free boys tell each other when playing their sex games, Roger knew that he hadn't really known anything about how a slave boy gets the sex done to him in his bottom. He'd been taught in the indoctrination center how to use his bottom – really use it, not just lay there and get the sex done to him – to be a part of the in-and-out that gives so much pleasure to a grown-up man.

In the process of doing that, and of serving his clients since he'd been unboxed down in the slave quarters at the comfort complex, Roger had learned why he should use his bottom in those special ways.

Because, of course, even though it always hurts, it can be incredibly, unspeakably, humiliatingly sexy for a little boy who'd gotten made into a slave.

Who could've known how incredibly hot it was to have a nice grown-up man really shoving a big hard-on up into that dirty place that no decent free kid ever wants to talk about, so thick that you couldn't even get the thumb and fingers of one hand all the way around it, and so stretching and burning and nasty inside your bunny-hole that you don't think you could take it?

It didn't always happen that way for Roger, sure. Lots of clients just weren't very considerate, or didn't want to take the time, or didn't really know how (and they wouldn't let a stupid little slave boy tell them anything, would they?). But even clients with little dickies – not much bigger than maybe a twelve-year-old's – could do the sex in your bottom so gosh-darned good that they could have you screaming and begging and pleading for them to stop, please stop, or you were gonna die from the good feelings over and over and over and 3;

Well, it happened. And then there were the teenagers who'd just stopped their no-grow shots and were only starting to shoot the sperms (if you could call that thin, watery stuff they made 'sperms'). Those guys were sometimes really good in your bottom, no doubt about it.

"Ain't the length of the fondue fork," one older client had said, "but how you poke with it."

Of course, he'd had to explain to Roger what a 'fondue' was. Sort of like a grilled cheese sandwich but you kept the cheese melted in a pot and dipped big cubes of bread into it, and Roger still wasn't sure that he believed that, even though the client had pulled down a little vid from the 'Net and showed it to him.

And thinking about grilled cheese was a really dumb idea when lunch was going to be nothing but another doggone slave ration.

Well, anyway, for all the 'passive' stuff in the top part of 1-4-3-7's body, the kid had been using his lower part in the sexing, not just angling his bottom to make the penis go in easier, but putting his heels on the visitor's hips and really working the process, with high-pitched little grunts as he pushed his backside up against Alan's down-thrusts, letting it sink back only a little and then meeting the in-thrust when it came next, like 1-4-3-7 wanted to punish the client for doing this evil, perverted thing to him.

Yeah, a little boy beating up a grown man with his butt. Too funny!

Roger wasn't too surprised when 1-4-3-7 got to his good feelings before the client did, because the big guy had cheated by getting his hand in there to play with Jimmy's dickie, using it as a kinda handle to hold the boy still while doing the in-push. It was the way a guy would hold your head just at the last while you were doing the sucking to his penis, when he wanted to just use your mouth to make the sperms shoot like you didn't have any choice.

Well, a slave didn't have any choice, of course. But there was a difference between cooperating and getting run over, right?

Roger had learned in the indoctrination center about the ways that most grown-ups used a boy's orgasm not to make the boy enjoy the sex but to make it better for the grown-up doing the penis-pushing inside that boy's bottom. When you had your good feelings, you couldn't help tightening up all your muscles, including the ones in your bottom, and you couldn't help moving your middle pretty good.

Roger had never thought about that when he'd been a real boy, but it sure made sense that a kid being made to orgasm and orgasm and orgasm – which 'dry-shooting' kids couldn't even stop doing if the grown-up was good at the job – just had to be nasty-nice for a mean old grown-up man doing him that way.

But you could tell that when the orgasm started for 1-4-3-7, it wasn't long before the visitor got his own good feelings, too.

Okay, the big guy had probably been extra-special super horny, getting to see the kid he'd been wanting to do for a couple of years (at least) stripped naked in the courtroom and turned into a sex slave, so he really couldn't have held out for very long, could he?

Anyway, as far as Roger could figure, it was very nice for both of them.

Once the visitor and the slave boy had had a couple of minutes to finish gasping and moaning and kissing each other like a couple of lovey-dovey types (which Roger could kind of understand), before the big guy had gone soft enough to have his dickie slide out from inside his former neighbor kid, the DM at the front of the room had finally finished whatever the heck he'd been reading on his pad and got up, making that Ahem! sound that was supposed to get your attention.

2-2-6-3 did a quick, really neat kind of 'pivot' to point his knees at the DM, and Roger scrambled to copy him. All the other slaves except for 1-4-3-7 kinda jumped and lined themselves up better, too.

Yeah, the DMs used those quirts on you when you didn't snap to it, but Roger kinda liked it when he knew that he was doing the servile stuff with some style. The Discipline Masters at this Hadleyville place weren't civilians who hurt and humiliated sex slaves just to get their rocks off. They were professionals who took pride in getting sex slaves (especially little boys, Roger was pretty sure) to look and act just so.

Sure, they hurt you and made you feel like stomped dukey lots of the time, and they all enjoyed doing that to a kid (you could tell, right?), but they did it professionally, and Roger had to admit that none of the grown-ups back home who had hurt him or made him feel like whale poop at the bottom of the ocean had been professional about it.

You could tell that the DMs here really cared about you, if only as a slave boy for grown-ups to hurt with the sex. You kinda wanted to be good for them because, well, you admired them as well as stayed scared of them.

Hunh! he thought. Maybe I'm kinda weird, too.

More gradually, the visitor and 1-4-3-7 were coming out of it, too. The DM was making some kind of noise about the 'demonstration' and how he hoped that you animals had taken a proper lesson about how – and how not – to satisfy a client in a hurry, a client who, like young Mr. Cowper, has places to go and things to do after attending to the undeniable appetites of healthy young manhood.

"You are also to consider this something of an introduction," the DM continued as Roger could see the teenager deftly tidying up the still kinda glassy-eyed little boy, "to Mr. Cowper, who is initiating a new program here at Hadleyville, in which a top-rate Militia cadet is undertaking a period of intensive voluntary service as an auxiliary trainee in the Slave Authority Service, with the intention of directly entering advanced academy placement next Spring."

Roger could tell that every other slave boy was now sneaking looks at the visitor. This big teenager was here to become some kind of cadet-type assistant DM? Never heard of that before, didja?

Every DM Roger had met – back home or since he'd gotten slaved – had been really old. All-the-way grown-ups, even the ladies.

Roger was pretty sure that it wasn't all that private a whisper when 1-4-3-7 blinked up at his sort-of-a-client. "You're gonna stay here?"

The big guy nodded. "Almost a year, Jimmy. Then I've get to go to the academy."

"B-But you wanted to go in the Army!"

The teenager shrugged. "I changed my mind." He looked stern. "Do you know how important the Slave Authority Service is?"

Another Ahem! from the DM. "Slave 1-4-3-7, I want you to conduct Mr. Cowper to the administration area and carry his uniform issue back to his assigned quarters in the barracks. Then find servitor 7-3-2-7 and accompany Mr. Cowper on his familiarization tour of the complex."

The DM sighed. "You're given permission to go without chains or chastity. Draw a pair of servitor shorts and a shirt for this. I'll notify 7-3-2-7 to break out a set for you. There's a size small enough in stock." The man's expression got grim. "And if you chatter, I'll tell 7-3-2-7 to fit you with a ball gag. Is that clear, slave?"

Kneeling properly by now, 1-4-3-7 nodded with wide eyes. "Yes, Master!"

A grunt from the DM, and then an afterthought, looking at the teenager. "Get his buttplug back in him before you take off, Mr. Cowper. You can dress in the service corridor. Get moving, if you please.

"Now," continued the man, "we only have time to sweat the rest of you animals a little before we have to waste food on you. Slowest 'round the track gets a blue slave ration."

Roger groaned mentally at the unfairness of it all.

***

Roger didn't see 1-4-3-7 for almost a week after that, and when he did it was only after the morning duty servitor down in the quarters had not only gotten Roger up along with the other slave boys but had slapped a big old cold compress on Roger's dickie and testicles to get the boy ready for an abstinence.

Like most other slave boys, Roger considered one of those nasty things a punishment, not an abstinence. If your morning stiffie hadn't gone down after you'd taken a pee, the cold compress shrank your dickie and even tightned up your nuts so that the servitor could coat them all with some kind of slippery stuff – usually one of the healing gels – and then he slid a sort of sideways–"C"–shaped steel frame up underneath the bottom part of your testicle pouch and then swiveled the crossbar around and clicked it into place so that it caught your glands really snug. .

There were a bunch of different sizes for those hoops, and the servitors were really good at picking the one that was tight around behind your testicles, though it wasn't like those 'torture' games Roger and his friends had used to play with rubber bands around each other's nuts. (That could make 'em swell up, and an abstinence was never supposed to do that to a guy.) Then the man would pick out a downward-bent steel penis tube for you, and he'd slide your slippery little soft dickie into it and lock the base of it to the arms of that 'C'–shaped ring around your family jewels so that it was like one solid unit.

Not just 'click' it there. It got locked so that a DM or a grown-up slave had to use a little key thing to get it unfastened.

The penis tubes came in different sizes, too, and the idea was to pick a tube that was just barely wide enough and long enough to hold your dickie when it was soft. You thought you were gonna get a stiffie, did you? Well, forget about it!

And because you could not get that ring off your testicles ('Go ahead and try, filth!') you could not get your dickie out of that tube. You even had to pee through the little holes at the tip of it, you couldn't stand up to do it, and you had to rinse your dickie while it was still in the tube instead of just shaking off the drops. Disgusting!

At least you got a special small-size stainless steel mesh chastity pouch to put over the whole thing, clicked into the base of the tube and the ring around your testicles, so it looked almost kinda like you were wearing just the regular 'packaging' down there.

Roger knew that sex slaves were supposed to be embarrassed all the time. He figured that it was why they always had to go around naked, always knowing that any time a real person wanted to hurt them or do the sex to them, it could happen. There were even some 'public access' places in the comfort complex – not the open corridors, but like out at the picnic tables under the trees, f'rinstance – where a client could just grab a naked slave and do it, right out where other people could see it.

But most clients really liked to mess with slave boys' dickies, didn't they? Boys sure liked to mess with other boys' dickies! Roger would've grinned at that thought, but the Discipline Masters didn't want slave filth showing smiles like that.

The only question in Roger's mind that morning as the servitor slave finished putting the pouch all around his tightly locked-up family jewels was why somebody had ordered it. He racked his memory to figure out what he might've done wrong to get punished, but couldn't figure out anything. The only other time they put an abstinence on a slave boy was when you'd, like, rubbed it raw or something.

Some slave boys went absolutely gonzo playing with themselves, which is easy to do if a guy got all-over sad and lonely and miserable. Real boys did it, too. Most of the time for a sex slave, though, it happened when clients messed with your dickie and testicles really rough. When that happened, the DMs ordered you into an abstinence so your junk got some time to heal.

You could still do sex with clients, of course. If a slave's got a mouth and a bottom, after all, a client can still use you.

Unless, of course, they locked your buttplug to that ring around your testicles so it couldn't be taken out, and then locked a ball gag in your mouth. After that, all you had was Handy Andy and his five fingers, and though some clients were okay with a slave boy doing the jerking-off to them, it wasn't most folks' idea of real sex, was it?

Roger sighed at that thought. Not that most clients really seemed to care much about whether a slave boy got his own good feelings in the sex, though some of them were nasty-good about using the button thing in your bottom to make you orgasm even if you weren't allowed a stiffie. When you had your dickie all squooshed inside an abstinence and you got done to your good feelings from inside, you just ached with the pressure of it.

Who the heck invented these things, anyway?

Some doggone grown-up, for sure.

When the servitor finished up with the cuffs and the chains and the regular (not locked) red ball gag, Roger was shoved through the door to the pick-up desk where he found himself standing next to 1-4-3-7, who was also in an abstinence and packaged and looking awfully sad.

Roger hadn't seen the slave boy since that day with his used-to-be neighbor over in the conditioning center – not in the ready room, not in the slave quarters, not in exercise sessions or anything except when the kid was with the new assistant DM, carrying stuff for the big teenager, or just following him around like a puppy or something.

" 3; so the guy asked him," said the old DM at the desk, "how to get from the fairway to the clubhouse without getting struck by lightning, and Trevino said: 'Just hold up a one iron'."

The two clients, who were even older guys, both of them dressed kind of funny in light-colored jackets and trousers in two different kinds of checkerboard patterns or something, grinned.

"A one iron?" said the client on the left.

"Yeah," the DM continued. "Trevino said: 'Not even God can hit a one iron'."

And then all three grown-ups laughed. Roger glanced puzzlement at 1-4-3-7, but the sandy-haired kid just gave a little shrug. He didn't know what was so funny, either.

Roger learned later that the clients had been going to play golf this morning, but a thunderstorm had come in a lot faster than the weatherman had predicted, so they couldn't even start their game. It was too early in the day for them to sit in the bar at the golf place, so they decided to drive over to the comfort complex and do the sex to a couple of slave boys.

Grown-ups could use their pads to reserve a sex slave (which the teenaged clients couldn't, and the high school students had griped to Roger about that a couple of times). When one of those grown-ups logged into the complex's computer system, it told him what slaves were available.

And what condition they were in.

Most sex slaves were ready for a client to use in the meanest, nastiest ways, but some weren't all-the-way supposed to get done like that. When one was sick or hurt – the way Paul-2 had been hurt – they were either on complete rest or they could only be used real carefully, and only for some kinds of sex. There were even clients who would check out a sick or beat-up slave for 'sex' and not have honest-to-gosh sex with him (or her) at all. Even now, almost all of the regulars who checked out Paul-2 just did it for cuddling and talking and maybe a little sucking or penis-play, the way a couple of real boys would mess around together on a rainy afternoon, only with no vid games.

Regular people liked to hurt slaves with the sex. Roger had understood that when he'd just been a real kid. It was a big part of why regular kids were so fascinated by sex slaves, and why real boys' sneaky naughty sex games had a lot of 'pretend' slave stuff in it. Roger's mom had been really mad a couple of years ago, when she had stripped her six-year-old son for his bath one evening and discovered that he had been whipped all over his back and bottom and legs with a set of rawhide bootlaces by several of his friends.

("But mom, I was the slave boy, and they had to do the torture to me!")

The whipping (and being tied up for it, too) had sure made getting his dickie sucked kinda special, but he didn't figure a girl – and a mom was a girl, after all – would understand that. It wasn't as if he'd been bleeding or anything because of it. Jeez!

When the two clients had brought Roger and 1-4-3-7 back to a sex room together, Roger learned that one of the men had checked up on Jimmy (the man knew 1-4-3-7's old name) because he wanted to use that particular slave boy again.

The client had been kinda pleased to learn that the sandy-haired kid had been put in an abstinence. There was a picture of 1-4-3-7 right after the ring and the penis tube had been fastened on him, and the man had thought that it looked "really hot!" to have a little guy all locked up like that.

"Tom came across your picture, Freckles," the man continued, "so we told 'em to get you into one of these nutcrackers, too." The guy grinned. "Matching set, kinda."

1-4-3-7 had known that Tom was one of those clients who liked to spank little kids, and Roger figured later that this was part of the reason why he'd looked so miserable when Roger got pushed through the door from the ready room and caught sight of the boy.

Once the DM had finished signing them out, that other man – who was named Harvey – had grabbed Roger by the hair and yanked the boy up hard, making Roger yelp with pain and surprise, looking up through wide eyes at the grown-up's face. He wasn't a really tall man, with blond hair kinda going gray, and dark eyes that looked right through you.

Right there in front of the DM, Harvey reached down with his other hand to Roger's middle and pulled off the little mesh covering to expose the abstinence that locked up the boy's penis and testicles, and the man laughed really nasty as he handed the silvery pouch to the DM.

"You oughtta put all these little pegboys in chastity like this," said the man, grinning at the DM. "Make 'em focus on what they're here for!"

"Harv," said the DM, "you're not supposed to start stripping them until you get them back into a room."

The client made a razzberry noise. "You're too regulation, Jack. The last time I visited the complex in Springfield, they just handed the kid to me in nothing but his collar." He leered. "Not even a plug in his ass, nice and tight."

"So go back to Springfield," replied the DM, frowning at the way Harvey was hauling up on Roger's scalp, making the gagged, chained little boy dance on tiptoe, the tears leaking from his eyes in spite of the way the boy was trying desperately not to cry.

"And give the filth a little slack, willya? You're not making him any taller that way."

Harvey glanced at Roger, his grin widening. "Just waking him up. Right, baby? It's not like you're a human being, are you?"

Even before he'd been slaved, Roger had known how grown-ups liked to make little kids hurt. Hair-pulling was one of their favorite ways. With his wrist cuffs fastened to his collar by these short lengths of chain, there was nothing Roger could do to grab the man's hand and maybe take some of the pull that way, so it was especially mean for Harvey to do this.

Sure, you were supposed to unfasten your chains if there was a fire alarm or something, but if you did it when a client was hurting you like this, the Discipline Masters would punish you, and they were a lot tougher on a slave boy than clients were allowed to be.

"Bah!" Harvey let go of Roger's hair and grabbed the boy's wrist. "Why do you bother with these chains, anyway? It's not like any of these chickens are any kind of dangerous."

"Keeps 'em servile," the other client put in. He had one hand possessively on Jimmy's shoulder, and he smiled kinda nasty down into the other boy's misery-laden eyes. "You never want 'em to forget that they're slaves, do you?"

"So how come you always take the chains off before you fuck 'em?" Harvey asked his golfing companion. He grabbed Roger's wrist. "C'mon, kid! Let's get moving." Turning to the DM, Harvey cocked an eyebrow in inquiry.

The DM looked puzzled for a moment, then twigged. "Oh, yeah. Room 12."

"Ah, old reliable," said Tom. "Thanks."

Out in the corridor, Harvey glanced back over his shoulder and stopped. "This oughtta be far enough," he muttered, and holding Roger's wrist with his left hand, the man reached down between the boy's bottom cheeks to fumble roughly, making Roger wriggle and wince helplessly. The man was getting a grip on Roger's buttplug! Frantically, the boy sort of half squatted, pushing his fanny backwards to make it easier for the client to get at it and get it out.

Roger could sure as heck tell that the man was gonna do it, and he wasn't gonna be gentle about it!

In spite of this, it hurt pretty bad to have the plug just yanked out of him, and Roger was blinking tears out of his eyes to watch the man hold up the red rubber bullet-shaped thing like some kinda trophy, grinning. Then Harvey hauled Roger down the corridor to a trash receptacle in the wall and shoved the gel-glistening buttplug through the opening.

"There," said the man. "That's out of the way."

"Y'know, they're gonna bill you for that," said Tom in mild disapproval.

"Big deal." Harvey grinned down at Roger. "Cutie-pie here won't walk so funny now, will he?"

If only! The way his bottom was hurting now, Roger was walking more careful than when he'd had the durned thing up inside himself.

Jimmy was crying pretty bad by the time they got to the sex room, which was silly because his client – the guy named Tom – hadn't done much to him at all yet. Meanwhile, Roger had been stripped of his ankle cuffs, which at least made it easier for him to walk. Harvey was using the chain-and-cuffs combination to 'whip' at Roger's legs and butt, though, so it sure wasn't that much of an improvement!

Shoving Roger through the doorway, Harvey followed close, chucking the ankle chain up on a shelf and grabbing the boy by the collar to give him a quick, rough shake before wrenching the ball gag out of Roger's mouth.

That hurt, too, of course.

"You any good at sucking cock, baby?"

Roger played dumb, doing his best to look too scared to talk. He knew that no matter what he said, it wouldn't make anything better. Roger wasn't exactly bad at sucking grown-up penis, but he didn't know if he'd ever get good at the kind of all-the-way-down-your-throat stuff that most men thought a kid should do. Sometimes he could, most of the time he couldn't.

Most grown-up penis was so durned big compared with a boy's stiffie.

Roger and the guys in his neighborhood had done the 'sword swallowing' stuff with each other. You couldn't miss it in grown-up porn, men-on-men and women doing it for men, vids and pictures and even stories that little guys could sometimes see or get told about.

But a classmate's dickie was okay to do that with. Back home, if you sucked Jackie Tedesco, you always got his pecker run as far back in your mouth as he could shove it, and you could swear that Jackie could fix another guy's buck teeth for him, just hammering that pubic bone part of him into your face when he got really excited. Heck, Roger wasn't the only boy in their neighborhood who sometimes had to nurse a split lip.

Grown-ups' dickies were thick enough and long enough, though, that they could get the really sensitive part at the tip all the way back into the place where a boy' swallowing muscles started, and they didn't care as much about what you could do with your tongue underneath as they liked what happened nice and tight and slippery all around the knobs of their big things when they were choking you with them.

What they'd taught at the indoctrination center had included 'lessons' on how a slave boy should use his mouth to make grown-up clients feel good – men and women – but Roger hadn't gotten the 'all-the-way' cock-shoving done to him more than a couple of times, and on one of those the DM doing the instruction had had to give up in disgust when Roger had just plain thrown up.

("You'll learn eventually," the man had said to the weeping, humiliated little boy as the DM had administered sips of water to get the taste of the throw-up out of Roger's mouth. The new-made slave was convinced at the time that he'd never get anything right, and the Slave Authority was gonna have him cut up for organ transplants.)

Roger had only seen a few of the DMs' training vids on 'Deep Throat' dickie-sucking, and he'd only just begun to get able to watch those vids all the way through without retching in imaginative sympathy.

Yet those sex slave kids in the videos sure seemed to handle it, and they even did it with what looked like hungry eagerness.

You could like getting a grown-up penis shoved in and out of your mouth and throat even faster than the clients liked to do it in your bottom? Yeesh.

The client reached into his trousers pocket and pulled out some little metal clips. Roger didn't understand what they were for until Harvey grabbed the boy's collar again and did something that Roger couldn't really see so good, first at the place where the wrist chains fastened to the stainless steel, then on his cuffs. A click! and then another click! and another and 3;

Harvey grinned down at Roger in satisfaction. "There!"

There was even more satisfaction in Harvey's eyes as Roger reached up – slowly, kinda looking for permission – to feel the fastening places on his collar, to discover that with those clips he couldn't unfasten the wrist chains now. No way!

"B-but, Master 3;!" Jeez, if they do a fire drill right now, I can't take these off the way I'm supposed to!

"Shut up, baby." Harvey reached down to take Roger under the armpits and lifted the boy up, light as a feather. "If the alarm bell goes, I'll just carry you outside, like this." Then the man brought Roger's nose right up against his own, and gave the boy a kiss on the lips. "You don't weigh hardly anything, do you?"

Roger wanted to say something. This was against the DMs' rules, and maybe a slave boy could get punished for it.

Heck, there was so much the DMs could punish a boy for.

But maybe because it was a client doing it, the DMs would know that Roger didn't have anything to do with this. Mentally, he shrugged. There were lots of clients who liked to tie you up, right? Well, you sure couldn't do the fire drill stuff if your wrists and ankles where roped down to the bed for a grown-up to do his penis in your bottom.

Harvey lowered Roger to stand again, and the man started taking off his clothes while keeping his eyes on the little slave's face, kicking off his shoes and jerking off his jacket and everything else, not expecting Roger to help because – of course – Roger's wrists were fastened to the slave collar by the short lengths of chain. For real.

Out of the corner of his eye, Roger could tell that the other man, Tom, had gotten Jimmy all the way out of his 'packaging' (except, of course, for the abstinence and his slave collar) and had stripped his own big body completely, humping that big hard-on against Jimmy's chest as he held the older kid tight against himself.

"Y'know," said Tom as he looked down at Jimmy, "there are private clubs where guys go to rent little slave boys for this."

Roger listened, hoping Harvey wouldn't mind him not paying attention enough, but Harvey seemed to think his friend was speaking to him. Roger was pretty sure that the man was talking to 1-4-3-7, though.

"Not free like these government whorehouses," Tom continued, rubbing his penis slowly but firmly up and down against Jimmy's smooth but boy-muscular torso. Jimmy was really good in conditioning sessions. "Places where the fucktoys are owned by people who have them modified. Really exotic stuff." A grin. "Lots of eunuchs," he said. "Even nullos. Know what those are, little guy?"

1-4-3-7 nodded, kinda jerkily. He was really-for-truly scared. Roger could tell. "B-boys who got their testicles cut off, Master. B-boys who got their testicles and their penises cut off!"

"Yeah," growled the man. Holding Jimmy firmly against himself, Tom reached down to take the kid's abstinence between thumb and fingertips, jerking it hard, up and down, back and forth, to make 1-4-3-7 wince and sob and quiver with each cruel pull. "None of this at all," said Tom. "Nothing to make the kid a boy. Even less than a girl's got. Ain't that something?"

He laughed heartily. "And for using one of those, you've gotta pay real money." Tom hesitated. "Just to fuck a 3; well, a something 3; that can't cum unless he's got a man's cock working all the way up inside him. Just like you, little guy. Right now, with this thing around your nuts and your pecker."

Roger had heard some stuff (but not much) about those slave boys who got 3; changed 3; by their owners. Hurt permanently and forever by their owners, with all sorts of 'ornaments' stuck in them, and bits cut off them, 'biosculpting' and coloring and tattoos just as permanent as your slave mark but all over you, and in weird patterns.

Taking off a kid's testicles – and his dickie for gossake! – had struck Roger at first as just plain stupid. Like every other kid he'd ever known, Roger liked other boys' dickies, and their testicles were fun to play with and taste and suck on, too. Take those boy-parts away, and you weren't doing sex with a boy at all, were you? Not really.

What you had was just somebody who could only remember what it was like to have a dickie to get the good feelings with. Roger was pretty sure that having those male parts was what made boys specially better than girls or women for a grown-up to do the sex to.

But then Roger had begun meeting clients like these two golfer guys, grown-ups who were just pure plain mean to slave boys because being mean – hurting and scaring and making little guys helpless and hopeless and feeling like they deserved to get punished just for having gotten slaved – made the sex feelings for them better somehow.

It wasn't that Roger couldn't understand that, kinda. Even when it was being done to Roger himself, the clients making him crawl and lick their toes and their saying bad things to him (the kind of stuff that really hurt in ways Roger had never, ever gotten hurt before), Roger had to admit that there was a lot of sexiness in it, sex that made Roger's own dickie tingle and quiver – except when he was in this stupid abstinence! – and kinda actually want to get a big grown-up penis pushed all the way up inside his bottom.

Not to mention holding that penis and sucking it to make the man groan and shudder and lurch around, which Roger had to admit was the kind of fun any little boy – free or slave – had to like. Even though you were a slave, when you were doing that to a grown-up, you were in control, right?

And the grown-ups think that they're doing something to us when we're sucking them!

But it looked like hurting a boy with bad words – and treating him like it was right to do awful things to him – really did help make the boy better for getting himself hurt for real with the big penis of a grown-up man.

Roger couldn't help looking again and again at Tom's big dickie as the man gloated over Jimmy's helplessness, and Roger could see that Harvey's penis was even thicker, if it wasn't quite as long. Jeez, a kid could hardly think of anything else but man-dickie when the grown-ups were treating you like this, could you?

Actually, these clients were both pretty good-sized down there. Not scary-big (Roger had been a sex slave long enough to have gotten a proper idea of what 'scary-big' could mean when it came to grown-up penises!), but their dickies were sure gonna feel bad inside a little kid's bottom. It was a good thing that the DMs made all the slave boys wear those plugs inside them most of the time, helping to keep you more open.

Later in his training at the indoctrination center, the DM who'd done the sex to Roger for the very first time had explained some of the history of sex done to boys in places like the comfort complexes before the government had made it legal again for people to be made into slaves.

There had been special businesses where regular free boys were kept so that men could do the sex to them. That was against the law even back then, of course, but the boys could actually earn money for getting men's dickies up their bottoms, and sucking them, and all the rest, and lots of kids – poor boys especially – got involved in that stuff. Sex slaves today, of course, couldn't have money.

Heck, they didn't own themselves. You didn't even own your slave collar, did you? It sort of owned you.

The DM had said that in some of those 'houses' they kept a long wooden bench in the front room where the boys had to sit between sex sessions, and at each place on the bench there was a wooden peg sticking up, with the same size peg sticking down underneath. Each boy was kept bare-naked so the clients could see all of them, and each boy had to have the 'up' peg all the way inside his bottom to keep the opening from tightening up, with his knees spread apart so the clients could see the 'down' peg underneath.

"A client could check out the boy," the DM had continued, "and then he could see the size of the peg underneath." The man had grinned. "I figure he'd pick a kid on a peg not as thick as the guy's own penis, to make sure of a tight fit."

That was why those places were called 'peghouses,' and why today another word for a slaveboy kept for the sex was 'pegboy,' like Harvey had said.

It was funny what they didn't teach you in school, wasn't it?

Just then, Harvey turned Roger around so that they were square onto each other, and he held the redhead's face in his hands, looking down into Roger's eyes.

"You're going to suck my cock now," said Harvey reasonably. "Nothing fancy. I just want to see your lips around my fuckpiece." He smiled. "I might fuck that pretty face of yours later, but for the moment, I need you to prove what a good little slave you are. Got it?"

Still kinda pretending that he was too scared to talk, Roger nodded, and he went down on his knees as the client pressed him toward the floor. Even though his hands were stuck to his collar by the short lengths of chain on the cuffs 'round his wrists, they were just perfect for reaching up to take the big hard-on between his thumbs and fingertips to guide it toward his mouth, so that's what he did. Harvey moved his middle a bit, the way a guy will when he's got something (or somebody) to push against, and the warm, round, head of Harvey's dickie bumped against Roger's nose, against his cheek and then Roger's chin before the boy got it between his lips, glad that Harvey wasn't exactly the tallest grown-up man in the world.

It would've been tough getting his mouth and the client's dickie together, kneeling down like this.

Before he'd gotten slaved, Roger had thought a lot about grown-up penises. Heck, didn't every boy? You could always find pictures and even some vids of naked men, even in the stuff you accessed on the school servers for Health class. Of course, what a kid was allowed to see (because of nanny-lock programs) didn't include grown-ups – or even boys – with stiffies.

If they had a picture (even a drawing) of a penis, it was always soft and floppy. That hadn't puzzled Roger much because he knew how even thinking about seeing another guy with a hard-on made his own dickie stick out like one of those boom cranes on a construction site.

Could you imagine a whole classroom full of boys trying to cope with stiffies while a teacher was trying to give them a lesson about pregnancy and how a guy is never supposed to have 'unprotected sex' with a lady unless its with somebody you're married to and the two of you actually want to make a baby? Forget about putting rubber things on bananas!

But what Roger had thought about – before he'd gotten stripped naked and collared and hauled off to the indoctrination center – had just been the way grown-up dickies looked, and a little about what it might feel like to hold one of them in your hands, either soft and dangling or hard and poking out.

He'd never even considered imagining what a man's penis would smell like (way different from his friends' dickies, that was for sure!), much less what a big thing like that would taste like if he got the chance to suck on one.

Even though lots of clients liked to make a slaveboy do the dickie-swallowing business (the dirty-mouthed men called it 'face-fucking', and wasn't that just plain disgusting?), almost every man liked to have you do the regular sucking to his stiffie, using your tongue in the front part of your mouth, where you could really do the same kind of good stuff that friends your own age liked so much.

Sure, you had to get used to having a bigger-than-normal thing in your mouth when you were sucking a grown-up's penis, but Roger hadn't been surprised when he'd gotten used to it real quickly. It was even kinda nice, in its own way, and – of course! – very sexy.

But Roger still preferred to suck other little boys, and he understood why so many clients always sucked Roger's own dickie at least once or twice every session. Boys' dickies were little, sure, but a boy having his good feelings because of what you were doing with your tongue and your lips and your hands on their bodies just made a guy happy, didn't it?

If I were allowed to grow up, Roger thought to himself, I sure wouldn't want to do the sex to anybody but little boys.

And hurting those little boys with his own dickie – magically big and thick and hard as a hammer! – would be awful cool, too, wouldn't it? Roger shuddered a little at the thought of it, in spite of paying good attention to the way Master Harvey's thing was surging back and forth against Roger's tongue and the roof of his mouth, the taste of warm flesh and that pre-cum stuff trying to compete with the smell of a clean but definitely male grown-up's big body overwhelming Roger's senses.

If this Harvey client weren't such a meanie, Roger was pretty sure he could get to like the guy. The man wasn't movie-star handsome, but he wasn't exactly ugly, either.

But the 'face-fucking' business was just stupid. A kid's throat couldn't be as warm and tight inside as a kid's bottom, right? And listening to a little guy yurking (and maybe puking), or watching him struggle to breathe as the tears go streaming down his cheeks 3;

How the heck could that ever get sexy?

Harvey's penis didn't taste bad, either. Roger had been surprised to learn that if somebody old enough to shoot the sperms had been eating stuff like onions or garlic, you could actually taste it in everything that came out of their dickies, the clear stuff they made while they were getting ready to shoot their sperms, the sperm-juice itself, and even (yuck!) their pee when they made you drink it.

And would you believe that some clients liked to drink slaveboy pee? Or at least have slaveboys pee in their mouths. One of the DMs had explained that this was one of the reasons why slave rations didn't have much in the way of spices and other stuff – like asparagus – in them.

Not that Roger had ever liked asparagus, of course. ("How do you know you don't like it if you won't try it?" Yeah, mom!)

So Roger did the sucking to Master Harvey's hard penis pretty much the way he'd used to do it to friends like Jackie Tedesco back home, grateful that the man wasn't doing – yet – what Jackie had liked to do the moment he got 'plugged in' on another boy's mouth. Roger used the tip and the rest of his tongue to taste the sides of the grown-up's dickie, knowing that the rough surface of a boy's tongue felt really great when it was used like that, not avoiding the really sensitive part at the tip, but not paying as much attention to it as Roger really wanted to do, because that would make the good feelings come on too strong, too fast.

You knew that it wasn't, well, polite to do that to another guy, whether he was a boy or a grown-up. Everybody liked the penis-sucking to go on for a while, to kinda build up gradually, so you could look at the person sucking you and enjoy the sight of your dickie going in and out between another guy's lips, feeling the warm slipperiness of your friend's mouth all around your 'pride and joy', knowing that he liked you so much (even if a slaveboy didn't exactly have to like a client to do this kind of thing for him), and to understand that you really needed another person helping you to have these kinds of nice feelings.

(Sure, there were guys who could suck their own dickies. Like any other kid, Roger had tried to do that for himself, but even though he'd been able to get the tip of it into his mouth, it was stupid difficult and definitely didn't have the niceness you got when somebody like Jackie Tedesco did you back for giving him his own good feelings. Sure, Jackie wasn't what you'd call 'good-looking,' but if you knew him even a little bit well, you had to like him. He'd make a great sex slave even though he was only a second-grader.)

Of course, you closed your eyes when you were sucking somebody's dickie. That was natural, right? You wanted to concentrate on the feelings you got, in your mouth and with your hands (especially when your wrists were chained like this) and against your face from that crinkly hair most grown-up men had all around their dickies. You also wanted to get the most of that smell a grown-up man's body always had, which was kinda gross but at the same time awfully comfortable, kinda like a little boy should always smell to make him know that there was a big guy who wanted to hold him close and take care of him and, well, y'know, love him 3;

And a slaveboy wasn't supposed to think about that when he was serving a client, was he? Stupid!

But why did Roger feel so sad and maybe even cry a little whenever he reminded himself about that?

Master Harvey's fingers were strong on Roger's head as the boy sucked penis, letting Roger feel how powerful the man was, kinda fiddling with Roger's hair and squeezing on Roger's skull, but not to hurt him the way the man had done with the hair-pulling at the DM's checkout desk. Maybe not even thinking about it, Harvey was telling Roger how much he liked the sucking that he was getting, how the kid was doing it right, and that made Roger feel better about the sex.

I mean, any kid likes to know that a grown-up thinks you're okay, right?

Chapter 13

Not realizing it, Roger gave a little moan of pleasure. When he'd been a real boy, he'd never even thought – well, not really much – about sucking a grown-up's penis, something that the adults all thought was gross and disgusting and horrible, and for somebody he'd never even met before.

A kid knew that the adults would jump your butt for fooling around with your friends, right? And doing it with a grown-up was so much against the law that you didn't even wanna think about what they'd do to you if they caught you like that. Some of the kids even figured that they'd enslave a boy if they caught him running around doing penis-sucking to grown-ups.

Not guys your own age, of course, 'cause that was what kids always did. But grown-ups? Or even the big teenagers who'd stopped getting their no-grow shots? A real boy who wanted to do that kind of thing with a grown-up was pretty much completely bad, like a lady who did prostitution.

And what did they do to grown-up prostitutes? Right. They got enslaved, and if they were lucky they wound up as sex slaves in a comfort complex, doing for clients the same kind of thing they'd been doing for their 'johns.'

But this sex stuff – even the 'gross and disgusting' parts of it – just kinda grabbed a guy and wouldn't let go. Hearing a grown-up man's voice go all raspy and short just because of what you were doing to his hard-on? Feeling the quivering in his big body from how you were working your tongue? Could a guy ever look at grown-up man the same way ever again after that? No wonder teachers and parents did so much to keep real boys from learning about real sex.

Then Roger heard 1-4-3-7 yelp in pain, begging his client "No, no, please!" and Master Harvey pushed the little redhead's face away from his cock, half-turning the kid so Roger would have to see what was happening to the other slaveboy.

Master Tom was sitting on the edge of a chair and he was kinda wrestling with Jimmy, not that there was anything even a strong little sex slave like 1-4-3-7 could do when a big, muscle-y man like Tom had hold of him. Roger was surprised to see that Jimmy wasn't faking his fright or his resistance. The kid really was trying to get away, even though 1-4-3-7 knew that there was no way he could.

This, of course, made Master Tom absolutely delighted. You could see how much the man liked having a kid struggle, being able to 'dominate' the poor, naked, collared little slave, and Roger shuddered at the realization that no matter what Master Harvey did to him, Roger was going to have Master Tom using him, too. And this guy was one of the mean ones, that was for sure.

There were always clients who didn't always bother to tie up a slaveboy before doing 'dominance' to him, just taking advantage of being bigger and stronger than the kids they were having the sex with. It was the rape game, of course, only those clients liked it most if it really was rape, with the naked slave showing real fear and squirming with real desperation not to have a man beat him and torture him and shove a big penis up inside him.

They didn't like it if you just gave up and went 'submissive' like the DMs taught you to behave. That only made these clients hurt you more.

You could tell that 1-4-3-7 was really scared because even though the room wasn't really hot (the sex rooms were always kept comfortable for naked grown-ups, which meant it was maybe a little bit chilly for naked kids), Jimmy had broken out all over in a sweat, making his skin glisten as he twisted and writhed and flung his arms around, trying to get away.

Jimmy must've had some control over himself, though, because even though he was pushing and shifting with his legs, he wasn't kicking, the way you'd figure a kid would if he were getting attacked by somebody who was trying to kill you. It was more the way you tried to get away from a bully in the playground. Roger knew what that was like because he'd gotten roughed up by bullies in school a few times. You didn't kick because you knew that it would make the bigger guy really pissed off, and then he'd stop trying to have his nasty fun with you and start pounding to bust you up good.

With Master Harvey's hands holding Roger pretty firmly, Roger had to watch what Tom was doing to 1-4-3-7, and he realized that it was making him feel sexy. He could tell that Master Harvey liked it because the man's big dickie was shoving back and forth against the side and the back of Roger's head, not fast or hard, but emphatic in its arousal. Jeez, Jimmy looked so beautiful in Master Tom's hands like that, crying and pleading, his face pale with fright and wet with tears as the man got the kid's wrists in a double hammerlock and put 1-4-3-7 belly-down over Tom's left knee.

Master Tom then picked up something Roger had never seen before, something shaped like the bottom of a sneaker, but without the part of the shoe that held your foot in it. It was thick and rubbery, molded in black stuff with the same kind honeycomb pattern that the bottom of a sneaker has so you won't slip and fall so easily, and you could tell that it was heavy. Roger got it instantly, knowing somehow that it was something made on purpose for beating little kids' bottoms the way grown-ups sometimes used a sneaker.

It would even leave the same kind of marks on a kid's butt. Jeez, but only a grown-up would think about something like that.

Whack! went the sneaker-thing on Jimmy's right butt cheek, and the boy howled with pain, his neck jerking his head up as his hands fisted helplessly in anguish. Jimmy's legs were kept under control my Master Tom's right leg, the same way Roger's mom had done whenever she had spanked him at home.

Come to think of it, his mom had used a sneaker, too, but hers were smaller than that thing Master Tom was using, and she had only done it to him bare-butt a couple of times, when he'd been specially bad.

Roger wondered why Jimmy was making such a fuss. The spanking he was getting was being done kinda slow-count, with the client stretching it out to really savor the cruelty, growling appreciatively at the boy who was twisting his head around to look up at him, begging the man to stop, telling Master that he'd do anything, anything, if only he'd quit hurting him!

Clients had spanked Roger like that a few times, and of course Roger had gotten all kinds of sex-torture done to him in the indoctrination center, with spanking being almost always a part of it. He figured that lots of clients thought beating a boy's butt was supposed to make him better for the penis-pushing or something.

Kneeling there in front of Master Harvey, Roger had to admit that seeing 1-4-3-7 get punished like this was more than just a little bit sexy for him. If only this durned abstinence weren't holding his dickie down and keeping him from getting a good stiffie. The doggone thing hurt!

Spanking always had been sexy, in a way Roger had never understood before, and he'd realized that it was because getting spanked had given him stiffies, his mom had quit doing it to him. She'd always hated for him to get a stiffie.

It was a good thing she hadn't known about these abstinence things, Roger thought. I woulda had to wear one all the time!

Roger glanced up at his client and was surprised to see the man grinning down at him, the sort of a look that says So it turns you on, too, does it?

And still playing scared, Roger just let his eyes go a little bit wider and he nodded ever-so-slightly, as if he was sharing something with Master Harvey.

Well, he was, kinda. He just wasn't supposed to show it.

That was when Master Harvey took Roger by one arm and yanked the boy up to drag him over to the bed. Like almost all the sex rooms, Room 12 only had one bed, a nice big one that was just a firm mattress on a kind of platform. It wasn't good for jumping up and down on the way little kids liked to do, but couple of grown-ups could stand on it and it wouldn't break. The furniture had to be tough in a comfort complex.

The man almost threw Roger onto the middle of the bed, landing him there belly-up with a whuf! from the boy's lungs, and Master Harvey climbed up there on his hands and knees to get right over top of the slaveboy, gazing down into Roger's eyes.

That didn't keep Roger from hearing 1-4-3-7 getting his butt beaten, or the other boy's cries of suffering and useless appeals for mercy, and you could kinda see what was going on out of the corner of your eye still, but Roger was looking up at his own problem, a big naked grown-up man with a hard-on he wanted to shove into a little boy's bottom.

The too-scared-to-talk thing seemed to be what Master Harvey wanted (though Roger admitted to himself that it wasn't hard to behave that way, 'cause this grown-up was acting pretty scary anyway), and when the man bent down to grab Roger by the wrist cuffs and kiss him on the mouth, the boy could only whimper a little and go with it, squirming as the client kinda leaned his big body all on top of Roger's, squooshing him almost enough to hurt, especially over that stupid abstinence.

Harvey's voice was gravelly and low in Roger's ear. "I like the freckles, kid." He grinned. "You hate that, don't you?"

Roger blinked, thought about it for a second, then shrugged. "Y-yes, Master."

That made the man chuckle and kinda hug the boy. "I never met a boy with freckles like yours who didn't hate it. Girls take it even worse. You got sisters?"

Huh? "I, I used to, Master."

"They got freckles?"

Roger nodded. Back when he'd been a real boy, Roger had had twin sisters but when their mom had broken up with their dad not long after Roger had been born, they'd liked their father better. Around when Roger had started pre-school, they'd both gone to live with their dad full-time.

They were sixteen now, and on that awful day in the courtroom, even though they hadn't been there to see Roger get stripped naked and collared as a slave, the judge had said something about them getting slaved, too.

In 'pillow talk' with one of Roger's nicer clients – an old guy who visited maybe every other week, and liked to cuddle a little before doing a boy's bottom (and after) – Roger had gotten an explanation that they were sure to get used like sex slaves, but in a baby farm.

"A matched pair of sixteen-year-olds?" the client had said. "Both of 'em pretty the way you are?" He'd chuckled. "They'll go into the breeder program, sure, but there are plenty who'd pay a nice price to get at those girls. I'll betcha that their 'sperm donors' turn out to be men with better political connections than gene charts."

The client had had to explain a lot of that to Roger, but the man had already done the sex inside Roger's bottom, and he hadn't minded taking the time, between kisses and hugs and stuff like that.

His sisters hadn't liked him much, even when Roger had been a baby, and he hadn't even much thought about what was happening to them now. Being older (Roger's client had explained), the girls wouldn't have to be breeder sluts for very long. There was something about 'emancipation' that Roger didn't understand, but the gist of it was that when they got to be all-the-way grown up, the government would have to let them go. He figured that they'd go back to living with their dad again, 'cause dad hadn't been involved in their mom's business or the bankruptcy.

From school, Roger knew that it took nine months (at least!) for a woman to have a baby, so Roger wasn't an 'uncle' yet. But he was gonna be, in a kind of a way, wasn't he? His snooty sisters were gonna get pregnant, over and over again, to have babies they didn't want to have, babies who would be taken away for other ladies to raise as their own little boys and girls.

Roger figured that this was pretty awful for his sisters, but considering what had happened to him (and was gonna keep on happening to him, worse and worse, forever!), Roger really couldn't get too broken-up about them, could he?

Master Harvey bent low to kiss Roger's face a couple of times. "I bet your sisters hate having freckles."

"I dunno, Master," replied Roger honestly. "I never used to see them much, back before 3;"

"Oh? Well, their loss." The man smiled. "You're gorgeous, kid. Do the ladies use you a lot here?"

Roger shook his head honestly. "No, Master. Sometimes, but not m-much 3;"

Harvey was squeezing Roger awfully tight while kissing him over the face and as much of the neck as the slave collar would let him, and the man was making grumbling noises of satisfaction as he shifted lower, kissing Roger all over his shoulders and chest and down the boy's belly, grunting in almost-surprise as he got to that doggone abstinence.

Lifting his head, Master Harvey gave Roger a rueful smile. "I knew this gadget would be rough on you, but I didn't think how much it would bother me." Flexing his neck, the man gave the little penis tube a kiss before raising his head again. "I don't think I'm gonna have them do this again, especially if I pick you for fucking."

He reached up for one of the pillows, scrunched it, folded it, and set it on the bed next to Roger's hip. "Upsy-daisy!"

Roger got rolled over onto his belly, his butt sticking up in the air pretty much the way he'd been getting used to. Lots of grown-ups seemed to like doing the sex to a slaveboy this way.

Heck, they like doing the sex to us kids EVERY kinda way.

Considering how Master Tom was still spanking 1-4-3-7 (you could hear the sneaker-sole-thing thudding on Jimmy's body, slow-count, and Jimmy's now-wordless cries and sobs of anguish), Master Harvey really surprised Roger by thumbing apart the redhead's bottom cheeks and leaning down to kiss and then start licking the tender wrinkle of Roger's bunny-hole.

Sometime during the last week of Roger's stay in the indoctrination center (you kinda lost track of time in there), Roger had been getting taught how a slaveboy was supposed to use his bottom to make a grown-up man's sex feelings even better for him during the penis-pushing.

Lots of grown-ups were okay with having a little boy just lay there and take it. Some of them even got mad if you looked as if you liked getting a big hard dickie shoved up inside you – as if you really could enjoy having a huge grown-up man's thing going like a piston, faster and faster, harder and harder, in that place? – but there were always gonna be guys who wanted a slaveboy to behave like getting it rammed up in there was better than a trip to Disney Planet and the biggest hot fudge sundae in the world, all rolled up into one super-delicious fun time.

Grown-ups.

Not that a kid couldn't have some really strong good feelings from having the penis-pushing done to him. Roger had to admit that he'd never properly understood what the good sex feelings were until he'd gotten slaved and the men at the indoctrination center had given him his first for-real orgasms. And the ones that happened because of what they did inside you were so strong that they honest-to-gosh hurt – in a way that later you wanted them to hurt you like that again, which was weird but not really that weird.

Anyway, the grown-ups who liked having a slaveboy go 'enthusiastic' about getting a big dickie up his butt almost always wanted that slaveboy (or girl) to do more than just hold still and let it happen. You were supposed to use your body in kinda the same way the client was using his body, sorta being a partner in the penis-pushing.

What Jimmy had done in the 'demonstration' back in the conditioning center, with Master Cowper, had been the stuff Roger had been taught in the indoctrination center, and the DMs there had made him watch three vids of boys and girls using their bottoms in ways like that before this Discipline Master had brought Roger into a training room to do the hands-on teaching.

It had been the same guy – 'Uncle Charles' – who had done the sex to Roger that first afternoon he'd arrived, so Roger figured the man wouldn't be too nasty to him, 'cause there were just the two of them. All the other DMs had been doing the 'gang rape' thing to break down a tough new kid (a seventh-grader, every bit of thirteen years old even though with the 'no-grow' shots he wasn't much taller than Roger) who'd gotten slaved on a six-month term indenture for being a super-bad discipline problem in school.

(One of the other DMs had told Roger that the kid was going to stay at the indoctrination center – not go to a comfort complex like a regular sex slave – or another Slave Authority place like it, where only Discipline Masters and other government guys would use that boy for the sex, not ordinary clients. Then maybe, if the kid's discipline got better, he'd be allowed to go home. That's why the boy hadn't gotten a regular slave tattoo 'burned in' on his thigh the way Roger and the other new slaves did. If the boy's discipline didn't get good enough by the end of six months, then – ZZZT! – and he'd wind up a sex slave forever.)

Roger had discovered – and it really wasn't much of a surprise – that the DMs working at the indoctrination center were always mean to you when there was more than one guy doing the indoctrination stuff to the new slaveboys.

But when there was just one DM (and that was true of others besides 'Uncle Charles'), some just naturally let themselves be kinda nice. It was like with regular boys who were bullies. If it was just you and him by yourselves, even some of the worst bullies could be not completely rotten. One would talk to you almost without calling you names and trying to make you feel bad, and he wouldn't hit you or noogie you or anything.

Then, of course, the moment any other kid showed up, he'd, like, flick a switch or something and go right over into being a bully again. It was as if a bully could only be nice to a smaller kid if there wasn't anybody watching to catch him at it.

So Master Charles had been really 'mauling the mattress' with Roger in a one-on-one lesson about how Roger was supposed to do the kinds of stuff he'd seen in the vids, twisting himself back and forth and lifting himself when the grown-up shoved his dickie down, all kinds of things that made it 'hot' for the client and – of course – hurt even more for the boy getting the sex done to him.

Every now and then, the DM would call time-out, both because he could tell that Roger was getting too tired as well as because 'Uncle Charles' didn't want to shoot his sperms in Roger's bottom too soon.

"Whew!" the man had gasped, settling back on his hip with a smile. "You almost got me there, Roger."

'Uncle Charles' had been the only DM at the indoctrination place who'd called Roger by his used-to-be-real name, and only when they were alone together.

"S-sorry, Master."

"Don't be." The man had chuckled, leaned over and kissed Roger on one eyebrow. "That's what these tricks are supposed to do. It means you're doing a good job."

When the DM had reached over for a towel and started drying the sweat from Roger's slender little body – which never stopped feeling really nice; Roger's mom had only done that when she'd gotten him out of the bathtub, and that had stopped when he'd been maybe four or five years old – the boy had realized that they were going to be resting for a bit. 'Uncle Charles' had told him that letting yourself get cold all of a sudden could make you stiffen up (and not in the sexy way).

That had meant that Roger could risk asking some of the questions that had been building up inside him until it had felt as if he was almost gonna bust. With most of the DMs, asking questions was 'showing initiative,' and a slave – especially a sex slave like Roger – wasn't supposed to do that. It had gotten him yelled at, face-slapped, even grabbed and whupped with a strap over his back and his bottom.

But with a DM all alone – 'Uncle Charles' especially – Roger had found out that he could take a chance.

"Master? How come you guys like to use your tongues in my 3;" Roger had hesitated. Even now, talking about lots of this sex-stuff was embarrassing, and during his first days as a slave it had been even worse. He'd been blushing, he knew it, and felt embarrassed about that, too. "You know, Master. In the place you put your penis."

'Uncle Charles' had smiled. "Yeah, it seems strange, doesn't it?" The man had used the towel very gently to wipe the sweat off Roger's face, in a way that had told Roger how much the DM kinda liked him, and that had made Roger feel really happy. He'd liked 'Uncle Charles' in spite of the ways the man had been hurting him.

"Anilingus," the man had begun, "gives a little piece of filth like you pleasure, doesn't it?"

Roger had nodded. "It, it tickles, Master, but it tickles kinda nice." Then he'd felt his face going hot again. "But it's such a dirty place for you to put your mouth!"

"Then it's a dirty place to put my cock, too, right?"

Well, Roger had had to nod at that, too. He'd been wondering. Besides that, sperms were made to put into ladies' cunnies to make babies. Should grown-up men be putting them into little boys' bottoms? Wasn't that some kind of a waste?

He'd gotten another kiss from 'Uncle Charles,' this time on the other eyebrow. "Look, filth, men will be doing a lot of things to you that will give you pleasure. Most of it is because we really enjoy seeing a little sex slave like you responding to what we can do. Think of it the way you think about stroking a cat and listening to it purr."

Roger had again nodded. Yeah, it was okay to pet a cat like that. His neighbor back home had had a cat, and it had always used to wander over into their back yard to get petted and maybe get some kinda treat. Roger had used to save bits from his tuna fish sandwiches just for that stupid cat.

He'd wondered just then whether or not that cat had been missing him. Probably not. Cats weren't like that, and suddenly Roger had been kinda glad his mom had never let him have a dog.

"I know, Master. They, uh, suck my dickie to make me orgasm. I guess they like seeing me go all crazy with the feelings." He'd frowned. "I don't think a kid can have good feelings that strong unless somebody else does them to him. I never could."

"You probably never will," the man had said equably. He'd reached over and played gently with Roger's dickie, making it go all the way stiff again. "It's important that you know – not just understand, but know – that whatever pleasure you're ever going to be allowed to experience will come only as part of satisfying the demands of your clients, the grown men and women who are going to use you. If you're having pleasure right now, it's only because I want your little pecker nice and hard, not because you like it but because I control you. Got that?"

"Ooh, yes, Master! P-please, don't pinch it like that! It hurts!"

At least Roger had known by then not to even lift one of his hands to try to make 'Uncle Charles' stop squeezing the tip of it like that. Darn!

"Yeah. And it hurts because I want it to hurt you. Why else would I do it?" Then the man had gathered Roger into his arms, rolling the boy over to hug him before reaching down again to play with Roger's stiffie.

"Look, filth, you're a beautiful little animal, just made for men to enjoy." He'd laughed. "And for some of the sicker, more sadistic women, too. When I put this puny pecker of yours in my mouth, or I put my tongue in your clean little boy-cunt – because we've taught you how to cleanse yourself, haven't we? – it's because it gives me pleasure to do it. It helps get you ready for me to shove my cock up your cute little butt, and speaking of that 3;"

Back to teaching a sex-slave how to use his bottom on a grown-up's dickie.

Chapter 14

So Roger wasn't surprised that Master Harvey had started pushing his own tongue into Roger's bunny-hole, not really tickling him at all, the big, raspy mouth-muscle spreading Roger open like some kind of huge worm, wriggling and poking and tasting Roger in a way that made the boy feel ashamed of himself for his helplessness, unable to keep from wriggling just a little, half-imagining that the stranger really was going to eat him, the way he'd read in story books about giants and wicked witches and wolves.

Would a monster like that start with your bunny-hole instead of with your private parts?

Well, with this durned abstinence, at least Roger's dickie was armor-plated, wasn't it?

Roger just sighed at how nice Master Harvey's tongue felt, circling and sliding into his bottom, the man's hands on either side, keeping Roger's bottom cheeks spread so far apart that they ached, but even that pain felt kinda good, too.

He figured that Master Harvey wasn't one of those grown-ups who liked a boy to pretend that the penis-pushing felt good. There was a lot of 'bully' in Master Harvey, or else he wouldn't be friends with Tom (who was still punishing 1-4-3-7 with the spanking), and he'd liked it when Roger had gone 'speechless' with scaredness earlier, so Roger decided that he was gonna just let Master Harvey see how much that big dickie was going to hurt him.

That'd be pretty easy, besides. To be honest, Roger was scared every time a client used him, even most of his 'regulars,' and he was always ashamed of that.

After all, I'm eight years old. It's not like I'm a little kid anymore!

When he felt Master Harvey lifting up, and the mattress moving from the way the man was shifting himself on his hands and knees to get up over Roger's body, he knew that the big penis was gonna be going inside him, and – he couldn't help it! – Roger started crying.

He wasn't saying anything, not begging or stuff like that. Roger knew that you couldn't get a grown-up not to do the penis-pushing to a slave boy all naked and ready to get it shoved into him, but Roger was just so miserable at that moment, knowing not just that it was gonna hurt but that if he were still a real human being, getting a big hard grown-up dickie shoved up your butt was just an awful thing to happen to a boy, worse than flunking Social Studies or even getting expelled.

Roger felt the big, warm, heavy round part at the tip of Master Harvey's penis slide between his bottom cheeks and kinda go up and down, 'looking' for the opening, before the thing settled in the hole that Master Harvey had been teasing and tasting so nice. You could tell Master Harvey was making sure it was in there, good and proper, before the man let go of the shaft and put both hands on the mattress either side of Roger's head. Master Harvey wasn't worried that Roger was gonna try to wriggle away from this, and Roger cried a little harder knowing that the man was right. Roger knew he couldn't get away, so why try?

It was always kinda dizzy-making for Roger to realize that the same big grown-up dickie that he'd been holding and looking at and sucking upon was going up inside his bottom like this. Such a nice penis going into such a nasty place 3; and then he felt the pressure bearing down, spreading him further and further open, Master Harvey doing it slowly 'cause the man obviously liked making a slaveboy really feel it 3;

Oh, man! Oh, jeez! Oh, is it gonna rip me open? It hurts!

The crown of Master Harvey's penis kinda 'jumped' over the ring of muscle that Roger couldn't help tightening up to resist it, and Roger yelped helplessly, a cry of pain that got a grumbling growl of pleasure from the man in return.

In the indoctrination center, one of the other DMs had explained to Roger that the healing gels that were used on slaves contained some stuff that you didn't find in a first-aid kit.

"Most of what we use on your naughty bits," the DM had said, "doesn't just speed up the resolution of small lacerations and bruises, welts and abrasions. They also tighten up the muscles in your bottom, and even a girl's cunt." He'd grinned. "No sloppy twats in a comfort complex, unless its on a female client."

At first, that had been good because after the first few times Roger had gotten the DMs' big dickies shoved up inside him, he'd kinda been afraid to fart, for fear that he'd poop himself, or his guts would fall out, or something.

After not much time, though, Roger had realized that what those gels were supposed to do was keep a boy's bunny-hole snug so that the clients would have something nice and tight and hot all around their dickies every time they used a slaveboy. And so it would hurt pretty much a lot every time Roger got it up his bottom, even if he'd had a buttplug in beforehand.

Not cool!

Even though Roger had gotten good at not crying – well, not really bawling, y'know? – it was almost as if it was all right for him to be crying (like a baby, I know 3;) from what Master Harvey was doing to him. He was face-down and butt-up on the big bed in a sex room, and even though neither of the clients had spanked him yet, Roger knew that it was gonna happen, and besides, you could tell that Master Harvey wanted him to cry, to show how scared he was, and how much he hated getting a strange man's big dickie jammed into his tight little-boy bottom.

So, yeah, Roger put his face in his hands (because with his wrists chained to his slave collar there really wasn't much else he could do with them) and he gave in to the sadness and the scaredness and the sexiness of knowing that a little kid's shuddering, squirming, sobbing helplessness was just exactly what this big bully liked most about doing this to somebody smaller and younger than the man was.

You could feel the strength in the guy's big body, the muscles and the bones heavy on top of Roger's back and his bottom even though Master Harvey was keeping most of his weight on his elbows and his knees, the big blond gorilla of a man huffing and grunting like a contented bull in a vid cartoon as he pushed in and pulled back a little, grumbling his appreciation every time his movements made Roger cry out his anguish.

Roger had figured that Master Harvey would be a 'talker,' one of those grown-ups who told you how much they liked doing the sex to you, how nice and hot your bootie was, how smooth your skin was, even how nice your hair smelled (which had always kinda flummoxed Roger, 'cause his hair smelled – y'know – like hair, and what was sexy about that?).

Of course, Master Harvey's body smelled sexy, 'specially as it was getting sweaty from the penis-pushing, and being underneath the man like this, Roger was kinda overwhelmed by that smell, which wasn't gross or rank or even a little bit nasty, but awfully comfortable in the weirdest kinda way.

You were getting raped, for Pete's sake – or it'd be rape if you were a real human being and not an animal piece of filth slave boy – and the smell of the guy who was doing the rape to you made you feel safe and protected and like this was where a kid was supposed to be, with a grown-up man who was paying super-close attention to you and even maybe 3; caring about you 3;

And no wonder Roger was crying so hard. Jeez!

But oddly enough, Master Harvey wasn't a 'talker.' He just kinda grumbled a lot, making the sorts of noises that told you what he was feeling without having any words in them, and that was strangely kinda nice, wasn't it?

All the while Roger had to feel the abstinence, like some kinda trap that kept his dickie from getting stiff, but not from wanting to get stiff, and in all his crying there were whimpers and groans of the worst kind of frustration a boy could ever know, the need to rub his dickie on the pillow under his middle (which Roger almost always did when a client put him butt-up like this for the penis-pushing) and the absolute, awful, horrible inability to do so.

Just what kinda grown-up had invented these abstinence things, anyway? It'd be almost worth it to break out of the comfort complex and risk getting caught and cut up into parts for organ transplants just for the chance to get at that guy with a baseball bat or a big rock, wouldn't it?

Pretty soon, Master Harvey had worked his big hard-on all the way up into Roger's bottom, doing it slowly and carefully, but not to make it hurt less. No, you could tell that Master Harvey had done this to a lot of little slaveboys before, and he'd learned how to do it so that the feelings for the kid underneath him were totally awful. The man knew how to make the sensation of a penis sliding in and out of a boy's bottom just overwhelm a little guy, even if the kid had had as many grown-ups doing the sex to him as Roger already had. Master Harvey was making it hurt the most he could while still making the sex-feelings inside Roger the strongest he could.

Master Harvey was almost as good at the penis-pushing as the DMs at the indoctrination center. With that last shove – kinda making the big dickie 'take root' inside Roger's body – the boy gasped, lifting his head, his eyes going round with surprise, learning that in his own way this Master Harvey guy was some kinda better than a few of the DMs who'd done the sex to him in the indoctrination center.

If you could call that horrible 'hurts-too-good' feeling better.

Fortunately, Master Harvey didn't manage to do that again, though you could tell he was trying as he began pumping his penis back and forth, 'long-stroking' Roger's bottom in a rhythm that seemed like something the man could keep up all day.

For a heavy-set older guy, Master Harvey had pretty good muscles, and he was flexible enough to kiss the back of Roger's head while he was doing the sex to him, the man's hands finding Roger's hands to hold them away from his face so that Master Harvey could look down into Roger's eyes, and that was pretty bad for Roger, 'cause while you could tell that Master Harvey was a mean, nasty, bad grown-up for doing such awful things to little slaveboys, the man's eyes were really nice, the way they looked at you.

Even though the man grunted like a big, happy boar hog just about every time Roger had to wince with the pain of what was being done inside him, you kinda just couldn't help liking the guy, could you? I mean, at least you could tell that what was happening to Roger was important to Master Harvey, right?

How many grown-ups would just plug their dickies in and 'ride' you like you weren't anything but one of those blow-up sex dolls they advertised on the 'Net?

Because of stuff that other guys had found out on the 'Net (none of which Roger had ever gotten to see before he'd been slaved), Roger had sort of known that grown-ups had hair in places kids never did, like under their arms and around their private zones. Lots of grown-ups had all that hair shaved off or ripped out by the roots with waxing (ouch!) or 'inhibited' some way, so that they weren't all crinkly down around their dickies and cunnies.

While that was nice for using your mouth on them (especially the ladies, who smelled bad enough even when their cunnies weren't all gross and hairy), the boy had discovered that when a grown-up man put his penis inside Roger's bottom, Roger rather liked to feel the hair touching his sitting-place, kinda tickley at first, then almost itchy, then finally scratching at Roger's butt, crushed hard between the man's middle and the twin roundnesses that guarded the entrance to the child's stretched and burning bunny-hole.

With Master Harvey looking down at Roger's face (he had his head turned so that he could almost look up over his shoulder at the man), and moving his big dickie in and out and down kinda strong so that it was really rubbing right up against that spot inside Roger's middle, the nubbin wrapped around the place where the pee-tube came into Roger's own dickie – and wasn't that a heckuva place to put such a sensitive 'feel good' part of your body? – the sex sensations were just building and building within Roger's flesh.

It was times like this that helped Roger understand why sex slaves always had to be naked. It was to keep you aware that your whole body was for the pleasure of the grown-ups who used you, from the top of your head (where Master Harvey kept kissing Roger) all the way down to the soles of your feet (which Master Harvey was spreading further apart with the tops of his own feet, kinda hooking Roger's ankles to do the job).

It made you know that this was where a slaveboy belonged, his bottom getting filled and re-filled with thick, hard grown-up penis, held down by strong grown-up muscles, the good feelings getting nastier and nastier for a kid, so powerful that you were actually afraid that it was gonna kill you, being just a piece of filth, good for nothing but getting the penis-pushing, not even able to rub your dickie against the bed, and oh, jeez 3;!

"Yeah, there it is, Freckles," growled the man. "You're lovin' it, aint'cha? Give it up, slaveboy! Give it up to Master. Show me what a sweet little boycunt you are, now. Cum for me, cum big for me, yeah!"

Stupid grown-up! Roger thought. A kid like me can't cum, 'cause to cum you gotta shoot the sperms, and I can't do that – oh, jeez! I can't! I can't! I c-can't!

And then, of course, Roger had his orgasm. Then another one, and another one – that was the one, he later thought, that had been when Master Harvey had shot his sperms into Roger's bottom – and then another and another and everything kinda went blurry and Roger didn't remember anything more.

***

Jimmy's client had done the 'rape' thing to him after laying on a beating that had left red marks – just like the pattern a sneaker would make – all over the boy's bottom and the backs of his legs, but Roger hadn't been in any kind of condition to see or hear it.

When Roger had come to – still belly-down and butt-up on top of that folded pillow – Jimmy had been serving the two men stuff from the little bar place at the back of the sex room. Just mugs of coffee and some little cracker things, but it had made Roger embarrassed to realize that he'd been literally screwed out of a chance to play the 'English butler' game. Roger figured that he'd gotten pretty good at brewing coffee.

But 1-4-3-7 wasn't enjoying the way his hands were free to do the serving, or the way Master Harvey was grinning at him and reaching up with his fingertips to wipe away the tears Jimmy was still crying.

"Hurts like a bitch, don't it?" asked the man, and Jimmy had nodded.

"Yes, Master."

"That's what I like about you, kid," said Master Tom. "I swear, Harv, but some of these little whores won't even give you a rise when you whup 'em. You can wear out your arm warming 'em up, and they don't show half the response you get out of little Jimmy here."

"P-please, Master." There was real fear on 1-4-3-7's face. "They don't like us using our old names here."

"Aw, bullshit," said Master Harvey. "The DMs know us. They don't mind. Besides, it's not your fault we know your real name – Jimmy." He smiled again, nasty-like.

Roger's liking for Master Harvey went down a notch. 1-4-3-7 wasn't just another piece of slaveboy filth. A big grown-up teenager had liked Jimmy so much – had loved Jimmy so much – that he'd left home and given up going into the Army just so he could be with 1-4-3-7 in spite of the fact that the kid had gotten slaved and wasn't even a human being anymore.

What did either of these guys know about that? Roger had never had anybody like Alan Cowper love him, and there was Jimmy, getting treated like it was okay to scare him with all kinds of DM punishment for using his old name.

Well, a slaveboy couldn't do much, but what Roger could do 3; He got up from the bed, and despite being a little bit dizzy, Roger walked unsteadily over to the little table at which the men were sitting and went down on his knees close to Master Harvey's big bare foot.

With his wrist cuffs still chained to his collar, Roger knew that he looked kinda like an oversized puppy-dog, and that made him feel silly, but it was perfect for kinda 'begging' the man to pay attention to him.

"Master," Roger said in a timid voice, "how may I serve you?"

"Aw, ain't that sweet?" Master Tom took a sip of his coffee and set the cup on the tabletop, beckoning Roger with both hands. "C'mon, little guy. Let me show you how you can serve me."

Not having to fake it much, Roger had looked up at Master Harvey with fear in his expression. "M-Master?"

The big blond man had ruffled Roger's hair with his fingers, smiling down at the slave. "Jeez, Tom, I don't think he wants you. After you whacked the snot out of little Jimmy here, who can blame him?"

"He gets to know you better," replied Master Tom, "he'll be crawling to me for rescue."

The man wasn't as heavy-set as his golfing buddy, but Tom wasn't any taller, either. His hair had been dark before it had started going gray, but like his friend he didn't seem to have done anything about that. Roger knew that lots of old guys put coloring on the hair on their heads to make the gray go away, but you could tell they were doing that because the hair on their bodies showed the gray anyway. These two clients might be mean, but neither of them was stupid.

If your hair was gonna change because you were getting old, let it change. Roger honestly thought it made a grown-up guy look pretty tough to have gray hairs.

Then Roger glanced at 1-4-3-7 and saw that the boy was still crying a little, even though the two men weren't being mean to him directly anymore. Roger wasn't any kind of hero, but he knew that the other kid was hurting from more than just a spanking and a 'rape' thing, so he looked over at Master Tom 3;

"I, I'm here to serve you, Master." He bowed his head, real servile-like, and tried to make his voice sort of creaky. "Command me, Master!"

That oughtta get him going!

It did.

***

It turned out that this Master Tom guy had a thing for bondage, and after he'd unclipped Roger's wrist chains and he'd gotten the cuffs off, he'd done all sorts of stuff to the boy, finishing up with using something called 'parachute cord' to tie Roger's hands in back before using his big dickie inside to prove that he could force Roger to have the good feelings even stronger and even more times than Master Harvey had done, this time with the slaveboy belly-up on the bed.

To be truthful, Master Tom had been amazing at holding back his own sperms, and Roger had been crying for real at the way the deep-own-inside orgasms were making him just about die with the sensation.

Roger had passed out for real this time – stone cold zonko – even though he had promised himself he wasn't going to let that kind of thing happen again.

When Roger came to, the clients were gone and 1-4-3-7 was hanging on one of the frame-things that all the sex rooms had. It unfolded out of a compartment in the wall, just for this kind of torture-rape. The slave boy's wrists and ankles were in dark leather cuffs, and those were linked by chains to the frame, Jimmy's wrists spread out way up high above his head, his feet spread apart below. 1-4-3-7's head was hanging down and the boy was sobbing in misery.

Grunting, Roger got to his feet and used his knees to shove a chair over in front of the part of the frame on Jimmy's left. He climbed up to stand on the seat and turned around so he could undo the fastener on that wrist cuff. 1-4-3-7 (still crying pretty bad) undid his own right wrist and then untied Roger's hands so Roger could get down, push the chair away, and unfasten the cuffs around 1-4-3-7's ankles.

Roger was surprised to see that Jimmy was crying worse than ever, and couldn't even take care of himself. Roger kinda wiped up the slick stuff between 1-4-3-7's bottom cheeks and steered him over to the bed, sitting down on the edge next to him and cuddling the older, bigger boy, going "There, there!" and kissing the sandy-haired kid just a little, trying to make Jimmy feel better.

Jeez, had it been that bad for Jimmy? The clients had been about average mean for a couple of spanking types (Roger's bottom really stung! as he shifted a bit on the bed, trying to get comfortable), but Roger had been hurt a lot worse by those kinds of grown-ups before. It turned out that they'd finished up their session early to go get themselves some lunch at the golf place's restaurant.

Roger kinda hoped they'd choke on it.

So how come 1-4-3-7 wouldn't quit crying?

"So how come you wound up in an abstinence?" Roger asked, holding the other slave's head against his shoulder, with one arm around Jimmy's back.

"B-because Alan is punishing me!"

"Huh?" Roger made 1-4-3-7 sit up further, and he looked the kid in the face. "Why? I thought you two were all lovey-dovey and stuff."

"Because he likes doing it to me!"

Well, it wasn't that simple. Roger got the story out of Jimmy a bit at a time, but it worked out like so:

1-4-3-7 had been assigned to this brand-new assistant DM as a kind of training aid, to use not just for the sex (which the big teenager naturally wanted) but to practice some of the basic disciplinary techniques a good Slave Authority officer had to use on the filthy animals remanded to pleasure the citizens.

Alan Cowper had proven himself an enthusiastic student, and after a few days (during which Mr. Cowper had worked out a bunch of his built-up 'child molester' sex fantasies), they'd used 1-4-3-7 to begin the full process of indoctrination as if he were a real boy just condemned to enslavement. The other DMs were helping out in the parts of it that needed a bunch of men doing things to the boy at one time, and even at least one grown-up lady, but young Mr. Cowper was hands-on with everything, in control and responsible for the subject's suffering and submission.

"But they couldn't do the slave mark to you again, could they?" Roger leaned over a bit to get look at Jimmy's right leg.

"N-no, but they had Alan tie me up – y'know, the way they do? – and then hook up some things on my leg." A sniffle. "He put the bite gag in my mouth and leaned over me, smiling as he turned it on." The horrified look on 1-4-3-7' s face was kinda scary. "It, it was worse than what they did to me in the indoctrination center. And it went on forever!"

Meaning, Roger knew, that it really wasn't bad enough to make 1-4-3-7 pass out. That was kind of worse, in its way, wasn't it?

"I, I thought Alan loved me," said 1-4-3-7. He looked at Roger as if he was begging for something, but the younger boy couldn't figure out what he wanted. Did he want Roger to tell him that the big teenager wasn't like every other grown-up who came here to use little slave boys for the sex?

"Maybe he's gotta hurt you," Roger said. "Maybe if he doesn't use you the way a slave is supposed to be used, they won't let him be with you at all."

1-4-3-7 sniffled and looked at the younger boy, doubt in his eyes. Roger could tell that the kid wanted to believe that. Heck, it might even be true.

But more likely, this was what Alan Cowper had been dreaming about from the first moment he'd seen his pretty little friend get stripped naked in that courtroom.

Roger knew that there were lots of fans who collected vids of people getting condemned to slavery. The ones that happened in a courtroom were for everybody to see, right? Grown-up men and women, little boys and girls, all got stripped in front of the high desk where the judge sits, and the collar was put around each new-made slave's neck.

Grown-up men and women didn't stay naked after they were hauled out of the courtroom unless the judge had decided that they were going to become sex slaves. That didn't happen to grown-ups much. They most always got made into servitors, to work in all kinds of places. The ones who were really violent got special control chips stuck in them, and went to work on the farms or in the mines and stuff like that.

There were stories about people getting slaved and then 'harvested' for their parts, but you never got taught about that in school, there was nothing about it on the 'Net (not ever), and the grown-ups always got upset if you asked about it. So you didn't.

Most young women and girls went to the baby ranches to become breeder slaves, and they didn't get to have sex at all, really. The sperm stuff was put up into their cunnies or they had little seed-babies put into their tummies for them to make into real babies, ready to go to mommies outside who wanted them.

Roger remembered that almost a third of the kids in his class at school had been 'farm babies'. Just about any lady could ask for a farm baby to have for her very own, especially if she didn't have any kids the regular way. Farm baby kids weren't really any more special than children who'd gotten started inside their own moms, but because of their 'selective breeding' they were supposed to be smarter and healthier and stronger. Roger didn't figure that, but it seemed to make the farm baby kids happy, so what the heck. With the no-grow shots, it wasn't like any of the boy versions were gonna get any bigger any faster than the other boys in the class, right?

And girls – no matter how their moms got them – were all a pain in the neck, so who cared?

The grown-ups (men and women) who got made into servitor slaves did all kinds of jobs, and some of them were made slaves for only a few years. One of the servitors at the comfort complex had finished up his time as a slave about a month after Roger had arrived, and everybody – even the sex slaves – had had a going-away party for him.

The man had gotten kisses and hugs from all the sex slaves, including the grown-up men ones, which you could tell embarrassed him, and laughing invitations to come back to the comfort complex as a client once his shots wore off and he got his sex feelings back.

The man had been specially nice to Roger, and Roger was more than just a little bit sad to see the man go.

When he asked 1-4-3-7 what he knew about courtroom vids like that, it turned out that Alan Cowper had been one of those guys who liked to watch the vids of people getting enslaved, but mostly for the ones that showed little boys getting stripped and collared. Plenty of times, it showed the kids in shock, the way Jimmy had been, and Roger, too, all kinda numb and horrified, just standing there while the slave cops got them undressed, even ripping your clothes a little because you sure weren't going to be wearing them again, were you?

A kid's dickie almost always went totally hard-on when that happened, even if a guy was used to swimming naked at the conditioning center. Getting stripped by big, strong men who were so rough with you, right out in front of a room full of strangers – well, that was embarrassing. Besides, most little guys who were brought into the courtroom never really expected that they were going to be leaving there wearing nothing but a slave collar (and maybe something to tie their hands behind their backs), never to see their families or their homes ever again.

There were boys who didn't go into shock, though, and Roger learned from 1-4-3-7 that those were the ones Mr. Cowper most liked to watch. The ones where the youngsters fought back against the slave cops, trying to get away. The ones where four or five grown-ups had to jump on the boy, who would be crying and yelling "No! Let me go!" and stuff like that, the buttons popping, the zippers ripping open, the clothes getting torn to shreds as the youngster squirms and kicks and grabs. They're almost always kids older than ten, who'd started the Militia training, and they've been taught real dirty stuff in hand-to-hand combat.

Some of them had to be wrestled down and tied up, held tight facing the people in the audience with gags in their mouths so that the men could lock the collar around the naked boy's neck, all sweaty and desperate and helpless and knowing that he'd been condemned to a life of really specially awful sexual slavery.

"He says," 1-4-3-7 explained, "that everybody knows those boys are going to have extra-long, extra-nasty indoctrinations, that the Discipline Masters will have to break those kinds of kids before they can let them go out and have clients do the sex to them." He shuddered. "It's a lot better to just be good, y'know?"

"Yeah," Roger agreed. He paused. "So is Master Cowper doing the indoctrination to you 3; that way?"

Jimmy blinked his red-rimmed blue eyes, and gave another shiver. "No!" he breathed. "J-just the way that it happened to me before. You know, regular." Then 1-4-3-7 winced touching his abstinence with both hands, and Roger knew that the guy's dickie was trying to get hard, and was caught inside that doggone penis tube.

At that instant, Roger thought about what it would be like if he were to get treated really 'rough', to get broken in the hard way, and his own dickie tried to get hard. "Ooh, darn!"

1-4-3-7 looked at Roger all concerned, Roger looked back, and then both of them started to laugh. These abstinences were horrible.

"So how long do we gotta wear these things?" Roger asked.

Still crying a little, 1-4-3-7 shrugged. "I dunno." He looked bleakly at his companion. "They put it on me last night. I don't know! And it's just awful!"

"Hey, calm down," Roger said, giving 1-4-3-7 a hug. "Remember what Master Tom was saying? There are private owners who have their boy-slaves' testicles cut off. And their dickies, too. Nothing like that is gonna happen to us, is it?"

"But why do the grown-ups put these things on us? Don't they want us for the sex? As boys?" He sniffled. "It doesn't make any sense."

Roger shrugged. "To the grown-ups, I guess it does. They don't want us to have the good feelings, probably. Unless they make the good feelings come from doing stuff inside us. It's 'cause we've got these prostate things on the inside part of our dickies. If we can't have the orgasms from what gets done to our dickies outside, maybe it makes us extra-good for the men to give us the feelings inside us, with their big penises."

He shuddered, remembering what each of those clients had done to him with that 'orgasm-on-the-inside' business.

1-4-3-7 nodded at that. "Alan has been doing it inside me with his fingers. He teases me that way, like almost getting me to the good feelings and then stopping." Jimmy looked around for a wipe, shrugged, and used the end of the bedsheet to wipe his nose. It was all going into the laundry anyway.

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