Istari

Tales from a World of Slavery 2:

Selling Dylan

My wife and I have basically had it with my fourteen-year-old son. Dylan is mine from a previous marriage, the oldest of our kids and the only one who does not belong to both of us biologically. Last week he was caught, once again, skipping school. He has always been somewhat disrespectful to his step-mother, but lately he's been a little smart-aleck with me too, and he treats his two younger half-brothers like shit. I suppose, deep down, there's a good boy in there somewhere, but Rebecca's been nagging me to find a permanent solution for Dylan ever since the boy was eleven. Naturally I'd resisted. Dylan is my son and I do love him, but when the police brought him home last week after being out past curfew, and when the school called to inform us that he was failing in every subject, I too had finally reached my limit. Something had to be done with him, on that point my wife and I were in firm agreement.

The fact that Dylan himself didn't seem to care that his young life is falling to ruin troubled me more than anything. I was thinking military school or some other private boarding establishment might give him the structure and discipline he clearly needs, but the cost of such a thing was astronomical and far beyond our limited budget. Rebecca, as always, was thinking along considerably more practical lines. "Why don't we just sell the little shit and get him out of our hair forever."

At first I thought she was joking. Then I was pissed to learn she was serious. Then I began to think. Dylan is a chronically disobedient boy. My own fault perhaps for spoiling him so much after his mother died, but still. At fourteen he should know right from wrong and act accordingly. He is wild, undisciplined, generally disrespectful and probably headed towards all kinds of trouble. Better to sell him into slavery now, where Rebecca and our two younger sons might at least benefit from it financially, then to have him sentenced to slavery by the court system at some later date. With his school truancy record, he was quickly headed in that direction anyway. At least we could make some money on it.

I mean really. What kind of future could this boy have at this point? The more I thought about it, the more I agreed that lifetime enslavement was the only practical option for my fourteen-year-old son. Other parents sell their boys into slavery, many do it long before they become difficult teenagers. Back when the child slave laws were first enacted, there was a stigma to selling your own kid, but these days it has become quite common. I think some parents have kids just to sell them off later on for a handsome profit. I felt bad about it, naturally, but Dylan had just about worn out his welcome in Rebecca's eyes, and I had my two other boys' futures to think about.

After grounding the boy for his latest transgression, and watching him stomp angrily upstairs, Rebecca and I contacted the local slave-dealer, Thomas and Sons Property and Indenture Services. A fancy name for what others commonly refer to as a 'meat market', the meat in this case being limited exclusively to teen and pre-teen boys.

It was after hours, so we left a message figuring it would be a day or two before we heard anything. About twenty minutes later the phone rang and a well-spoken woman with an English accent was on the other end, ready to take down the pertinent information on our son. Naturally, having no experience with selling any of my children, I fully expected a litany of questions and suspicions as to my motives. I received no such thing. The woman never once inquired as to precisely why I wished to sell my son but rather dove right into the specifics about him.

"How old is the boy?"

"Just turned fourteen about two months ago."

"Has he reached puberty?"

"Just barely," I replied, thinking about Dylan's still mostly boyish voice and his hairless legs, normally the only part of his body he ever exposed to us these days.

"Height and weight?"

"Five feet [1.50 m] tall and probably one-hundred and ten pounds [50 kg]."

"Small for his age."

"Yes, he is."

"Hair color?"

"Blonde."

"Eyes?"

"Brown 3; well, light brown, I suppose."

"Any medical or mental health problems?"

I silenced my wife's comment about him being a constant pain in the ass and said "No."

"Criminal record?"

"None. Yet. That's one of the reasons we're calling."

"Truant?"

"Constantly."

"Sexual orientation?"

"I really don't know," I answered truthfully. Come to think of it though, Dylan has never brought home or even mentioned a girl. The thought that my son might be gay had never really crossed my mind before.

"Are you offering an indenture or lifetime enslavement?"

"Lifetime."

"Selling to the highest bidder, or fixed reserve?"

I had no idea how much money Dylan might actually fetch at an auction of boy slaves, and I definitely wanted him sold quickly, so I decided to just leave it to the whims of the market. "Highest bidder will be fine, I'm sure."

"Well, Mister Randall, we are holding a public auction this coming weekend. I believe we can fit your boy in. New boys to the market always do well, so you're in luck there. Just how serious is his disobedience problem?"

"Quite. We're fed up with him and really don't know what else to do. We've thought of military school, but we don't have that kind of money and I've got two more sons who are going to need a college fund."

"I completely understand, Mister Randall. Boys like your son are one of the main reasons the Child Slavery Laws were enacted in the first place. Might as well make something productive out him, right?"

"Exactly."

"Would you like us to send a collection team out for him, or do you plan to bring him in yourself."

Now I knew we'd have a loud and rather unpleasant fight on our hands if we tried to drag Dylan to the slave-dealer's ourselves. He's very small for his age and has, I believe, only just started puberty, but he's a wiry, tough kid, great on his skateboard and he was an excellent little wrestler before he quit last year. That was first sign I suppose that his life was starting to head in the wrong direction at the tender age of thirteen. Needless to say he'd give us a run for our money and I didn't want his little brothers witnessing a traumatic scene.

"I think a collection team would be best. I assume they'll be discreet?"

"Oh, completely, Mr. Randall. We are happy to offer such a service. We will of course have to deduct a nominal fee from his final sale price."

"Of course."

"We will dispatch a team immediately."

Tonight, I thought. Well that was quick. Any thought of backing out come morning was pretty much eliminated right there. "Uhm, okay," I said. "We'll leave the front light on for them."

"Excellent. You and your wife can stop by our offices during normal business hours tomorrow and fill out the necessary paperwork."

I said "Thank you," and hung up the phone. Rebecca was smiling at me, satisfied that I'd finally gotten rid of Dylan for her.

One hour later, just before 9pm, there was a knock at the door. Two rather large men were standing there, both wearing suits and ties. A small panel van with the name of the slave dealer was parked in our driveway. They announced themselves as the collection team and presented their credentials. I invited them in. They brought with them two rather large metal cases which they set down in the middle of our living room. We did not ask these men their names, nor did they volunteer that information. A preliminary writ of sale was presented to me and my wife for our son and we quickly signed it. While not necessarily binding, it effectively ended Dylan's life as a free boy and condemned him to sub-human status as a slave for the rest of his life.

"Where is the slave?" one of the men asked, opening one of the cases on the floor. It was filled with chains and an iron collar.

"He's up in his room," I replied. Hearing them already referring to my teenaged son as a slave was something I'd not quite prepared myself for. The reality of what I'd just done began to settle in right there. I think, if I hadn't still been so angry at the boy, I probably would have tried to back out. "I'll go bring him down."

The two men nodded with professional detachment. Rebecca offered them a seat but they chose to remain standing. Timmy and Jason, the two sons Rebecca and I shared were still in the family room watching cartoons. Curious at the sound of strangers in the house, they wandered in to the living room, both shirtless, eleven-year-old Jason in his cute white briefs, nine-year-old Timmy in his goodnites, since he still wets the bed. Generally this is all he is permitted to wear around the house. He finds it rather embarrassing, especially when he or Jason have their little friends over, but until he learns to sleep like a big boy that's the rule.

"Are we taking these two as well?" one of the men joked staring at my cute shirtless sons. Jason in particular was eye-catching with his golden-blonde hair, icy blue eyes, remarkably muscular little body and the surprisingly large package hidden comfortably beneath the soft cotton of his little briefs.

"If they misbehave, we'll be calling you," I said, tussling Timmy's brown hair.

"What's going on, dad?" Jason asked me, his hands at his hips, eying the big men with suspicion.

"Grown up business, Jase. We're having problems with your big brother, these men are here to help us fix things. Now why don't you and Timmy go back and watch TV. You can stay up a little later tonight."

Both boys liked this idea very much and any further curiosity was quickly dispelled. They ran back into the living room.

"I'll go get Dylan," I announced and mounted the stairs.

"We'll be ready for him, Mister Randall," one of the men said, laying out a set of wrist and ankle shackles. I noticed how small the irons were, meant for the slender limbs of a young boy. There was a lump in my throat as I reached the top of the stars. I'd done it. I'd sold my son into slavery. Nothing would truly be final until the auction went through, but writs of sale are almost impossible to rescind.

Dylan's room was at the end of the hall. I knocked rather loudly and opened the door without waiting for an answer. Dylan was stretched out across his unmade bed with his right hand inside his boxers. It was quite obvious what he was doing. Even though we know they do it anyway, Rebecca and I generally disapprove of our boys playing with themselves. We've been considering putting all three of them into chastity belts, but now, for Dylan at least, it was no longer going to be our problem.

"Jezus, dad! Can't you see my door was closed!"

"Get your hand out of your pants right now, you little pervert, and come downstairs. We've got company."

"So what?" the boy replied, his voice just on the cusp of adolescence.

"So get moving. I mean now, mister!"

"Okay, okay. Geesh. Let me get a shirt on."

"Don't bother," I replied, already realizing that my son's days of wearing clothes were probably over forever. "What you've got on will do just fine."

Dylan glared at me, his little brain already figuring something was out of the ordinary. The boy got off his bed and stood up, flicking his long blonde hair out of his eyes. As I said he's small for his age, barely five-feet [1.50 m] tall. He's very slender but has nice developing muscles just the way a young teenaged boy should. Wearing only his boxers, it was plain to see that he still hadn't developed any real hair on his body. I'm sure there was a little patch of pubic hair above his cock, but he hadn't allowed anyone to see him naked in several years.

He followed me downstairs into the living room, complaining all the way, then stopped and stared in confusion at the two men waiting there.

"What's going on, dad? Who are these guys?" the boy asked, crossing his arms over his chest and suddenly looking very small and very scared and very young.

I looked him right in the eye when I told him. "Dylan, we're tired of all of your nonsense lately. You're failing all your subjects in school, when you even bother to go that is. And now you're out breaking curfew."

"Tonight was the first time," the boy said. I could hear the nervousness in his voice. "It 3; it won't happen again, dad, I promise."

"You've promised before and it's too late for that now. I don't understand you, Dyl. You've got a good home here, two little brothers who worship you and a mom and dad who love you 3; and you act like a little snot-nosed ingrate."

"She," the fourteen-year-old pointed at Rebecca with malice in his still high-toned voice "is not my mother."

"Enough of that, Dylan! Your attitude toward your family is the main reason these men are here. We could have dealt with your problems in school, but you won't even give us the chance. So, you mother," I paused to emphasize that word for him, "and I have decided its best for you and this family if we sell you."

"What! Sell me, but, I mean, what?! You can't do that to me!"

"Oh yes we can, young man," I replied. "We've decided that slavery is best for you and we've already signed the papers. These men are here from the slave-dealers downtown, they're going to take you away tonight."

"Like hell they are!" the boy shouted. "I hate you. How can you just sell me, dad?! It's her, isn't it 3; " Dylan again pointed at Rebecca. "She's making you do this."

"This is for your own good, Dylan," I told him as he started to tremble and cry.

"I hate you! I fucking hate you!" Clad only in his boxers, the boy started to bolt toward the door. One of the men from the dealer's was on him in a second, tackling the slim hundred-twelve pound [51 kg] fourteen-year-old and sending him to floor.

"Get up, you little shit!" the man shouted at him. "How dare you speak to your father that way! No wonder he's through with you. I said get the fuck up!" And he pulled my bewildered son to his feet by his hair.

Rebecca and I watched silently as the two men quickly secured Dylan's wrists behind his back with a pair of shackles. The boy's ankles were placed in irons next, with barely twelve-inches [30 cm] of chain between them. Dylan tried to struggle, but the two grown men easily overpowered him. Drawing a pair of scissors from the briefcase, one of the men quickly cut away my son's boxers, leaving the fourteen-year-old naked in front of us. Rebecca smirked and I must say I was a bit surprised, and as a father a bit disappointed, at the tiny cock and balls that hung between Dylan's legs. Aside from the long blond hair on his head, my oldest son was completely hairless and his dick was barely three inches [7½ cm] long. Eleven-year-old Jason's was actually bigger than his already. Dylan's balls were equally unimpressive, two grape-sized orbs dangling in a soft pink hairless scrotum.

"You didn't make much of a boy there, James," Rebecca said to me with a snicker, her hatred of Dylan turning into pure delight at the boy's humiliation.

"I guess I didn't," I had to admit.

"I always knew he was a worthless little prick!" she continued, making sure Dylan heard every word.

"Dad! You can't just let her talk about me like that!" Dylan shouted in protest, assuming I'd defend him.

Those, however, were the last words I would ever hear my son speak as a large penis-gag was quickly stuffed into his open mouth and strapped tightly in place around his head. The boy's eyes watered and he began to sob fitfully. Fear, and the simple fact of being naked in front of adult strangers had caused Dylan's penis to become erect. It was somewhat less pathetic in this state, nearly five inches [12½ cm] long, but certainly nothing special.

Next an iron collar was locked around Dylan's neck. One of the men kept a firm grip on the boy, while his partner secured the collar with a heavy padlock and attached a short length of thick heavy chain.

"Bend the little brat over so I can plug him," one of the slavers said.

"Right," his partner replied, forcing the boy to bend at the waist.

Rebecca and I watched, me in sympathy, she with delight, as they violently forced a latex butt-plug into Dylan's teenaged rectum. The naked boy screamed into his gag and thrashed around wildly, his erect penis bouncing from side to side as he struggled.

A black latex sheath was then placed over Dylan's cock and balls and tightened around his hairless groin. It appeared to be quite a tight fit and was clearly causing the boy immediate discomfort. Wrapped up within the snug confines of the shiny latex, Dylan's small genitals seemed even tinier. This was my son's first taste of the harsh sexual discipline that would certainly be a part of his new life as a slave.

Finally, a black hood was pulled down over the boy's head and he was dragged out of the house toward the waiting van, his chains clanking and rattling as they marched him down the steps of our front porch. Despite the late hour, the appearance of the slave dealer's van had attracted the attention of the neighbors and now a small audience, including some of Dylan's friends, was now gathered across the street to see what was going on.

I could still hear my fourteen-year-old son screaming and sobbing as they shoved him into small cage and slammed the door. I watched as the van's rear lift raised the cage off the ground. The two men then pushed it into the cargo bay. Having seen enough, I closed the door and turned off the porch lights. Moments later we heard the van pull out of the driveway, carrying our son away to his new life as a slave.

The next morning, Jason and Timmy were full of questions about Dylan's sudden disappearance. They'd been spying on the scene in the living room the entire time and had seen their older half-brother stripped naked, collared, shackled, gagged, butt-plugged, and dragged out of the house.

"Was Dylan bad?" Jason, always sensitive and thoughtful, asked me in a small hesitant voice.

"Yes, Jase, he was."

"And that's why those men took him away?" Timmy chimed in.

Both of the boys were still barely dressed. Jason in his colorful soccer shorts, Timmy wearing a clean pair of his mandatory goodnites. They sat at the breakfast table munching on their pop-tarts as they interrogated me in the way only young boys can.

"That's right, Timmy. Bad boys like Dylan have to go away. It's best for them."

"Will he be coming back?" Jason asked.

"No, son. We've sold him."

Both boys looked at me in surprise.

"We've told you boys about slavery, about those boys you see sometimes, the ones with collars 3;"

"The naked ones!" Timmy giggled. His older brother nudged him in the ribs to keep him quiet.

"Yes, Timmy, those naked boys are slaves, and now Dylan is one of them."

"Why don't, I mean, why can't we just buy him back then?" Jason asked.

"Well, I suppose we could," I replied, "but he'll be better off with a new owner, someone who can teach him how to behave."

"Oh," the eleven-year-old hummed thoughtfully. "So, will he always be a slave from now on?"

"For the rest of his life, Jase."

"You guys wouldn't ever sell me or Timmy, would you?"

I tussled his golden-blonde hair. "Of course not, Jase, as long as you're both good boys."

"We'll always be good, dad. Promise!" the boys said in unison. It seemed that selling Dylan would have the added side benefit of providing his younger brothers with added incentive to behave themselves.

"Daddy?" little Timmy asked in his softest most secretest voice.

"Yes, Timmy-bear, what is it?"

"Why 3; why did Dylan's wienie get all hard like that?"

I was rather surprised that in all the chaos, nine-year-old Timmy would notice Dylan's erection. I was about to answer but Rebecca answered for me.

"Because he is a very bad boy, Timmy. Only bad boys have penises that get hard like that. You two boys never get hard like that, do you?"

Timmy and Jason looked at each other. Timmy was young enough to not even notice when he had an erection. Jason, at eleven, was certainly a different story. A guilty expression filled his eyes, but both boys answered in unison.

"No, mom."

"Good. Boys should have nice soft penises all the time. Make sure both of yours stay that way."

"Yes, mommy," Timmy said.

"Yes, mom," Jason replied with his eyes cast down to his bare feet.

During the course of that week, in order to normalize Dylan's absence for the boys, we moved Jason into Dylan's room and quietly disposed of all of my oldest son's possessions. Any photographs we had of him were fed into the shredder. By Friday night, Jason and Timmy had stopped talking about Dylan entirely and it was as if the boy had never existed.

Saturday morning, Rebecca and I, with our two remaining sons in tow, went to the Thomas and Sons slave dealers for their weekly auction. We'd debated about the wisdom of taking two impressionable young boys with us, but we felt it was important that they learn more about slavery, and in particular witness the selling of their older brother to the highest bidder. The implied threat that this same fate could befall them if they stepped out of line was rather obvious, and watching Dylan's sale would further impress upon them that the fourteen-year-old really wasn't coming back home, ever.

Thomas and Sons looked from the outside very much like any other form of retail establishment. An older well-maintained building in the historic district downtown. We parked along the street and walked around the block to the actual front entrance, a newer addition that stood in marked contrast to the Georgian style architecture of their main sales offices. The glass doors were opened for us by a naked little slave boy no more than ten years old. He had a large iron collar around his neck and his head had been shaved bald. He gave us a welcoming smile, handed us a full-color program of the upcoming auction and pointed the way to the sales room. He did not speak to us. He couldn't, due to the large bit-gag he was wearing. The boy had a tight little body, trim and lean and possibly a bit underfed. The word 'SLAVE' was tattooed across the center of his chest in bold black letters. Rebecca and I both noticed that the boy's genitals had been removed, leaving him perfectly smooth between his legs. This was the first time I'd ever actually seen a nullified boy in the flesh. I confess it was a rather attractive thing.

"Dad," Jason piped up beside me. "What happened to that boy's stuff, I mean his wiener," he whispered the word, "and his balls?"

"His owners had them cut off, Jase. It's a rather simple operation really. It happens to a lot of slave boys."

"Wow," my eleven-year-old whispered, instinctively clasping his hands over his groin. "How does he 3; ummm, you know 3; how does he pee without a wienie?"

That was actually a very astute question to which I had no definitive answer. "I'm sure they found a way for him to do that without one," was my answer and it seemed to satisfy him. "And I want you to use the word penis from now on. You're a big boy now. You have a penis and testicles. That boy doesn't."

Jason nodded and continued with his questions. "Are they, are they gonna do that to Dylan?"

"They might, Jase," I explained gently. "You see, Dylan's really not going to need his penis or his testicles anymore, now that he's a slave. He'd probably be better off without them, just like that little boy is," I gestured back to the naked nullified ten-year-old who had by now resumed his place by the door.

"Oh," Jason said. I could tell he was thinking hard about everything I'd said and told him about slave boys over the past few days, trying to make sense of it in his young mind.

As we entered the sales room through another set of glass doors, a familiar looking gentleman greeted us. I recognized him as one of the men from the collection team who had taken Dylan from our home.

"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Randall. Hampstead Thomas, Jr. I am at your service. Pleased to meet you under more formal circumstances. Your boy gave us quite a fight the first few days we had him here, but he's finally learning to behave himself."

"Dylan always did have a lot of spirit," I replied.

"Indeed," Mr. Thomas laughed heartily. "More fun to break them that way, I always say."

My wife and I both shook his hands and his eyes fell to Jason and Timmy, both dressed in khaki shorts and button-down shirts, Jason in his favorite skater shoes, Timmy in his beat-up hand-me-down sneakers. They were about as neat and presentable as we could ever get them.

"I see you've brought the boys as well," Mr. Thomas said. He seemed to be taking particular notice of Jason's shapely toned calves, a natural result of years of playing soccer. "Excellent. It will do them good to see a real auction. For their own protection, please affix these to their wrists." He produced a pair of plastic bracelets, each with the words 'Free Boy. Not for Sale' imprinted on them.

I handed one to Jason, figuring he was old enough to put it on by himself. Rebecca placed the other one around nine-year-old Timmy's wrist.

"Just in case anyone has any ideas," the man winked at us. "Your sons will catch the eye of many of our buyers. I'm sure you will be made several private offers for one or both of them before the day is done."

"Thanks for the warning," I replied, actually rather flattered that Rebecca and I had produced such handsome and apparently desirable offspring.

"All part of our commitment to excellent service, sir. Feel free to take a seat close the auction platform. It's good you arrived early. The front row fills up fast."

Indeed it did. By two o'clock, when the auction was scheduled to begin, the entire sales room was filled to overflowing. Late-comers were obliged to stand at the back or in the second floor gallery. From a side entrance, four collared slave boys entered, each of them wearing a pair of tight shiny rubber shorts and white gloves. Their feet were bare and shackled, all four of them had ball-gags in their mouths, and like the little nullified lad at the door, their heads have been clean-shaven, apparently the established 'look' for boys owned by Thomas and Sons. The youngest boy was probably ten, the oldest no more than twelve. They each carried a large serving tray with wine, beer, and soda for the guests' choosing. As the boys began to work their way along the crowded rows of buyers, sellers and on-lookers, I took a moment to scan the room.

I immediately noticed that Jason and Timmy were not the only free boys here. Several families were in attendance. I wondered if they were selling one of their sons, or looking to buy a boy. Perhaps my Dylan would be going home with one of them today. Absent from the sales room, aside from the four lads owned by Thomas and Sons itself, were any actual boy slaves. I would later learn that any boys brought along by their owners were being kept in a holding pen in the basement as they were not allowed in the actual sales or show rooms.

Aside from the numerous families, there were lots of clearly gay couples, a surprising, for me at least, number of lesbians, numerous single individuals and representatives from various companies and industries. Everyone was well dressed. Auctions tended to be elaborate formal affairs when conducted by 'old world' houses such as Thomas and Sons. As I continued to study the crowd, a familiar face caught my eye. An older gentleman with a silver-haired goatee and an outwardly pleasant and kindly demeanor. The father of my first wife, and thus, Dylan's grandfather. I hadn't seen him in years. After Anna's untimely death he'd shown little interest in me or his grandson. Nevertheless I swallowed hard. Certainly he had a copy of the auction program. Certainly he'd seen the full color photograph of Dylan in chains, nude, collared and gagged. Of course the dealer hadn't listed Dylan's name in the program. My first-born was no longer Dylan Randall after all. The boy was just a number now until his new owner selected a new name for him. But the resemblance between Dylan and his mother was very strong, and I was sure my former father-in-law would have no trouble recognizing him.

I'd always known that David, a wealthy single businessman of strong Anglo-French heritage, kept a boy or two for his personal use and pleasure, but I wondered how he'd react to knowing that his own flesh and blood was going to be paraded about on that platform and sold today.

My stare got me in trouble as David turned to meet my gaze. Rather than a look of displeasure, he smiled at me, waved, and leaving his sport-coat behind to save his seat, sauntered leisurely over to us.

"James Randall, how are you?" he asked in a cultured old world accent as I stood to shake his hand. Rebecca rose to her feet as well.

"I'm fine, David."

"And this must be your new wife."

New was hardly accurate. We'd been married for over eleven years now.

"Rebecca," I said, introducing them. "And these are our sons, Jason and Timothy. Say hello to Mr. Adamson, boys."

Jason nodded a shy hello. Rambunctious Timmy offered his hand and said hi with a bright smile. David seemed immediately taken by them both, particularly Jason, whose shy mannerisms always seemed to win him the affection of strangers.

"I guess you know that Dylan is in there," I said, pointing to the program David Adamson was still carrying in his hand.

"Yes. Yes I was rather certain that fine young stallion was my grandson. Giving you too much trouble was he? Well, I remember his mother was quite a handful at her age as well."

David did not seem the least bit outraged to know that his only grandson was going to be sold into slavery. Quite the opposite. He smiled at me again in calm reassurance. "Actually, I call it a lucky turn of fate. My current boy-pet has grown a bit too old for my liking. I've sold him off to one of the coal mines upstate somewhere. I came here today to buy a new boy and imagine my delight to find my own grandson amongst the available livestock. And a handsome little animal he is too. I plan on bidding quite handsomely for young Dylan, rest assured. Do you suppose he'll remember me?"

Dylan was barely three the last time he saw his grandfather. "I doubt it," I replied. "It's been such a long time."

"All the better. Assuming I'm able to purchase him, he'll never know he's my grandson. Well, there's the final bell, better take my seat." Before he left, he moved close to me and whispered in my ear, "I'll give you a quarter million dollars, right now, today, for young Jason there."

He walked away before I could really digest what he'd just said to me. Only as I was sitting back down did it really sink in. Thinking it was a joke, I leaned over to Rebecca and repeated the man's offer. She laughed and smiled at me, stared at eleven-year-old Jason, then down the long row of chairs to where David Adamson sat. She seemed to catch his eye for a moment then turned her attention to the empty auction platform. I could see the wheels turning in her head.

The auction started at two-fifteen in the afternoon. The first group of boys to be sold were those under the age of eleven. There were five of them on the program and they were all marched out in a single group under guard. They were naked, of course, and chained together from the iron collars around their necks. Each boy also wore shackles at his wrists and ankles. All five of them had ball-gags forced into their mouths. Their hair had been washed and recently trimmed. Their naked bodies were completely hairless as not one of them had yet to enter puberty. Each boy had a small silver ring nestled tightly at the base of his genitals, forcing his cute little boy-parts to extend outward from his body in a lewd fashion. All five of them were clearly sporting erections. The oldest boy, probably close to Jason's age, had a nice four-incher [10 cm] to his credit.

The auctioneer took the podium. "Welcome. We have a full program today, so let us begin. Lot number 34-A."

The guards released the first and youngest boy from the chain and brought him forward. It was clear this little boy was frightened and bewildered and had no real concept what was about to happen to him.

"Eight years, six months old. Unspoiled, untrained. New to the market. Look at its beautiful black hair. Green eyes and ruby red lips behind that gag folks. Tiny little cock and balls. It would make a perfect little plaything to those with young daughters. Let's start the bidding at $2,000.00."

A large number of hands went up and the bids for this first little eight-year-old boy continued to rise. He finally sold for $9,000.00.

Rebecca and I watched as the little boys were sold one after the other. Timmy seemed to be totally enthralled by the entire process. Jason twitched and shifted around nervously, often adjusting the obvious erection in his shorts.

The oldest boy in this first group turned out to be ten-years and eight-months old. He was rather tall for his age and well hung as I'd noticed before. The length of his cock was one of his key selling points. He was still sporting his full four-inch [10 cm] erection. His balls were rather good-sized as well, at least for a boy not yet in puberty.

"Look at that nice long cock on this fine young colt," the auctioneer said. "Ladies if you cut off its balls, you can enjoy that cock with no worries for the rest of its life. Gentleman, imagine the fun you could have torturing such a boy. It has been owned before, but it is in excellent condition. Our guarantee of health and quality applies, as always."

The final price for the ten-year-old with the big cock was $15,000.00. I noticed that the sale prices continued to escalate with each boy sold.

Next to be brought onto the block were three boys of various ages who had been modified in some way. The first, a boy of about thirteen had been given a full penectomy but still had his balls. Second to go was a nine-year-old who had been completely nullified, and last was a twelve-year-old whose Achilles tendons had been permanently severed, forcing him to crawl on all fours wherever he went. This boy's genitals were still intact but imprisoned in a small spiked cage. The auctioneer informed us that this lad had been kept in strict chastity for the last four years and had never, in all that time, been freed of his cock-cage. These types of boys cater to a very specific crowd and apparently quite a few were in attendance today as prices soared into the tens of thousands of dollars. Rebecca looked at me excitedly. If these upward trends continued, we'd make a small fortune with Dylan today.

Finally it was the final group of older boys, of which our Dylan was the oldest and thus last to be put up for sale. There were only three of them, and they were brought out collared, chained and shackled just as the little boys had been. All three of them, two very well-hung thirteen-year-olds and our fourteen-year-old Dylan with his embarrassingly small genitals, were wearing cock-cages molded from clear plastic. Their awkward gait also indicated that they each had butt-plugs inserted into their teenaged rectums.

Rebecca, the boys, and I watched as the two thirteen-year-olds went for $50,000.00 a piece, both to the same bidders. I could only imagine what sort of entertainment they would be providing the gay couple that purchased them.

Last was Dylan. He looked terrified. They brought him forward.

"Last but not least. Lot number 66-J. Fourteen-years and two-months old. Silky blonde hair, and soft brown eyes. This one is made for serving. Look at that fine lean musculature. This one is still naturally hairless folks, no tricks or make-up here. And such a tiny inoffensive little cock. But don't let that fool you. This one's got spirit. It took us several days to get it to behave in the docile manner you see now. It will need a firm hand and constant discipline. Experienced masters only, please!"

The bidding started. David Adamson, who so far had remained entirely silent, sat forward in his chair, watching and waiting as the bids for Dylan climbed. On the platform, my fourteen-year-old son was sobbing quietly. Finally, when the bids topped $70,000.00, David raised his hand. "One hundred thousand!" he shouted, certain this would top all others.

Another bidder went along, "One-ten!"

David remained impassive and stared at the naked boy on the stage. Dylan's head was bowed, his eyes cast down at his own teen-boy feet in shame and humiliation. I saw David smile and lick his lips. His own grandson, soon to be his new boy-pet. "One hundred and fifty thousand," he said slowly and firmly. The crowd gasped. Apparently such a sum was unheard of in this part of the country. Even the auctioneer seemed taken aback, but only momentarily.

"One-fifty. Going once 3; going twice 3; sold! To the gentleman in the front row."

Dylan was immediately dragged off the stage by the chain attached to his collar and with that final sale, the auction was over. I had sold my son into slavery. To his own grandfather.

"Bidders you may pay for your slaves and pick them up at sales office down the hall. One of our slaveboys will show the way. Sellers, you will need to be present to sign the final writ of sale and to arrange for receipt of payment. Thank you for participating in today's sale."

We followed the rest of the buyers and sellers to the older part of the building where the sales offices were located. There was a line of small narrow cells on one side of the hallway where all the boys who had been sold today were being held until the paperwork was finalized. I passed the cell in which Dylan was chained by his collar to the wall. He was still shackled, and his cock was still imprisoned in the plastic cage. He looked at me with sad red eyes, welling with tears. I'd never seen my son so afraid. The boy seemed so forlorn and lost and so very young as he stood there bewildered at the turn of events his life had just taken. He was still gagged so he could not speak to me, but his eyes spoke volumes.

"Be brave, Dylan," I said, pausing before the bars of the cell door and scanning his naked body. Seeing him up close now I could detect bruises on his face and legs. Knowing his disobedient nature, I'm sure they had to employ a good deal of physical discipline to keep him in line. "You brought this on yourself. This is the best your mother and I could hope for you. You're a slave now. The sooner you get that through your stubborn little head the better off you'll be. Try to be a good boy and it won't be so bad for you. I, uhm, I know the gentleman who bought you. You'll be in good hands."

The boy remained inconsolable. He sniffled and sobbed and wiped his nose with the back his hand, rattling the chains that connected his shackled wrists. "Mmn phhrrrmy," he said through his gag. I think he was saying "I'm sorry."

"I love you son," I said as I walked away. I really do love him. Selling him was hard, but I know it was the right thing to do. At least his life will be ordered and directed and he'll be kept out of trouble.

Rebecca and I met privately with David Adamson and a representative from Thomas and Sons. The paperwork was extensive and I reviewed everything carefully. We would be paid in quarterly installments for Dylan, until the full amount, minus the dealer's fees was reached. My wife and I both signed and initialed where indicated, permanently relinquishing our parental rights to Dylan and permanently and legally establishing his new status as a slave. David then signed as the boy's owner.

"Are there any stipulations you wish to place on the sale," he asked us. "As the boy's new owner I am not required to provide you with such consideration, but you are family of sorts. As my boy-pet he will have to undergo considerable mental and physical alteration."

Rebecca and I looked at one another dubiously and shook our heads. We'd agreed to sell the boy. There could be no changing things now. "No, David," I answered for us both. "He's your property. You may do whatever you want with him."

"Excellent. Well then I believe our business is concluded." He handed me a check for the first quarter's payment. It was indeed a handsome sum. "I shall take my property and go. It has been a pleasure seeing you again, James, and meeting you Rebecca my dear. My offer for Jason still stands. Call me. We must have dinner together."

As we loaded the boys into the car, I saw David pulling Dylan along on a chain leash. The iron collar from the slave dealers was gone and had been replaced with a wide black leather one with metal spikes running its circumference. David had apparently also brought his own sets of ankle and wrist irons, and Dylan was now adorned with these as well. The cock-cage that had just recently imprisoned the fourteen-year-old's undersized genitals was gone, property of Thomas and Sons, and once again Dylan's small hairless genitals were on full display. His little cock was hard again. I overheard David speaking to him.

"Enjoy that erection, boy. Once I get you home, it will be the last one you are ever allowed to have."

Dylan muffled a cry into the ball-gag David had strapped in place.

I watched as my son, now a slave for life, was pushed into a small cage mounted on a trailer behind his new owner's Landrover. Dylan would be exposed to anyone who wished to stare at him as he was transported to his new home.

"I'm gonna miss Dylan," Jason said as we got into the car. It amazed me how he could be so devoted to his older brother when Dylan generally ignored him, but Jason is a sensitive and rather gentle boy.

Over the next few months, Rebecca and I exchanged several emails with David. The subject of Dylan and his gradual transformation into a boy-pet came up several times. We of course had no further rights or say in what happened to the boy. It was I think merely out of courtesy that David kept us informed as to the progress of the boy's training. I was more curious about the finer details of Dylan's enslavement than Rebecca, who was mostly just glad to have the boy gone.

I learned that Dylan was in fact no longer the boy's name. He is now called Odin. At first I found it ironic that a slave boy would bear the name of a Norse god of old, but then I recalled that it was a fairly common name given to dogs, horses and other domesticated animals. And it certainly suited the boy's rebellious spirit.

I learned that through strict bondage and several minor surgical procedures, Odin has been rendered incapable of walking like a human boy. He is kept permanently on all fours.

I learned that Odin's vocal chords have been severed, rendering him permanently mute.

I learned that since Odin no longer has any possible use for his hands, his fingers have been amputated and his hands permanently locked into padded leather mitts.

I learned that Odin's genitals are now permanently locked away in a stainless-steel pod-like covering that prevents him from touching or even seeing them.

I learned that through constant discipline and necessary tortures, my son has become an obedient, well behaved fourteen-year-old slave boy, an endless source of delight and pleasure for his master.

David has never told the boy of their relationship, and if Odin ever suspects anything, no one will ever know.

Three months after we sold our son to him, David invited the entire family for dinner. He greeted us at the door, with Odin naked, on all fours and on a leash close beside him. The boy's face was partially hidden by a doggie mask and muzzle that made him better look the part of a loyal boy-pet. His brown eyes though were immediately identifiable. We would later learn that the doggie mask almost never comes off. He hadn't grown much, and he was still a lean lithe little creature, his skin now tanned all over from being outdoors so much. His useless fingerless hands were encased in paw-like mitts. His feet were bare and we could see a black latex puppy-dog tail sticking out of his butt.

"Odin, sit!" David ordered and the boy immediately assumed a squatting position, his knees spread wide apart, presenting his encased genitals to us. We could all plainly see the metal pod. It was quite small, and even my son's small cock and balls would have been constrained in there very tightly. I imagined it was utterly impossible for the boy to ever have an erection.

"He's adorable, David," Rebecca said. She was always better at the small talk of these social gatherings than I was. She reached out and petted the boy we once knew as Dylan on the head. Odin, the obedient boy-pet, made no movement nor no sound as this woman he'd hated more than anyone in the world ran her hands along his naked shoulders.

"Dinner is about ready, if you'll follow me to the dinning room." David tugged gently on Odin's leash and the boy obediently crawled along behind him.

"Is 3; is that really Dylan," Jason asked me quietly as we followed them. I was wondering what the boys must be thinking right now, seeing their brother so transformed.

"He's not Dylan anymore, Jason. He's called Odin now. He's a pet, like a dog."

"Oh."

"What was that thing covering his penis and his testicles?" my thoughtful eleven-year-old asked, remembering to use the grown-up words for Odin's genitals.

"That keeps him from touching himself, or from getting erections 3;"

"You mean like boners?"

I smiled. "Yes, Jason. Boners. Odin isn't allowed to have them anymore."

"Not ever?"

"Not ever."

Jason thought about that for a moment, then changed the subject. "He looks kinda cool with that mask on his face."

"I think so too, Jase."

Dinner was a civilized affair. Our two boys were on their best behavior. Odin remained on all fours at his master's side, not moving or making a sound. His eyes betrayed his hunger for the delicious food being eaten, but he was given none of it.

"I feed him a special mixture twice a day," David explained. "It resembles dog food, but has all the nutrients a boy his age needs. He hasn't eaten human food since the day you sold him."

"Sensible," I replied. Odin was a pet. Pet food is what he should be receiving, and nothing else.

"He seems so well behaved, David," Rebecca said. "You've worked wonders with him, and in just three months."

David smiled. "Well, once he learned that he was no longer a boy, but a boy-pet, he settled right in. It certainly wasn't easy at first. Took weeks before he stopped trying to stand up on his hind legs, even after I had his tendons severed. And of course I had to keep him gagged continually at first. He actually tried to bite me once! I solved that problem by having his front teeth pulled. That has other benefits for a certain task I've trained him to perform."

David didn't want to get too graphic in front of the kids, I suppose, but Rebecca and I both knew exactly what he was referring to. He reached down and ran his fingers affectionately through Odin's hair. Again Odin did not make a sound, but his eyes demonstrated clear and unconditional obedience to his master. It was good to see my son so well adapted to his new life, and I took heart, since we had come here not just on pleasure but on business.

"Did you bring the papers?" David asked.

"We did," my wife replied, pulling the requested documents from her purse and handing them over to our host. He examined them for several minutes, nodded his approval and produced a pen.

"I see both of you have signed already," he observed as he signed his name to the last page. "We'll just need to get this officially notarized and the deal is done. I would like to take possession this evening, if that's alright with you."

"Absolutely," I said.

I then turned my gaze to young Jason, sitting quietly at the table and staring at his naked half-brother. "Jason," I called his name strongly. He raised his eyes to mine. "Take off all your clothes and give them to your mother."

Our eleven-year-old son sniffled but made no attempt to resist. A bright and sensitive child, he knew what was going on. I think he'd suspected for several weeks that we might be selling him. Meekly he undressed, revealing his slender athletic hairless pre-teen body. His cock was hard and at least five inches [12½ cm] long, bigger than Dylan's, an impressive organ indeed for a boy of eleven. I couldn't be sure, but I think I spotted a glint of moist pre-cum on the tip. David quickly came up behind him and closed an iron collar around the boy's neck. He pulled Jason's arms behind his back and cuffed them.

"You are not allowed to speak in this house," David said to him as he forced a ring-gag between Jason's lips, a device intended to keep the boy's mouth open at all times. "You are being sold. You are going to live here now and be my slave. Nod your head if you understand."

Jason nodded as tears rolled from his big blue eyes.

David produced a small name-tag from his pocket, the same style as the one dangling from Odin's collar. The name on it was 'Thor'. A tiny cock-cage came next. He slapped the eleven-year-old's penis several times, very roughly.

"Get it soft. Boys do not have erections in this house. Ever."

Rebecca and I watched as David deftly placed the little chastity device around Jason's genitals, working the boy's half-hard penis into the cage. Jason let out a high-pitched moan as he felt the unforgiving device constricting his boyhood. He was crying freely now. Rebecca and I knew we'd be seeing this from sweet little Jason, but there was no help we could give him now. The initial critical symbols of the boy's enslavement were in place. There was no turning back from our decision. David again returned his attention to us, producing a check from a folder on the dining room table.

"I believe this should more than compensate you for your loss. I appreciate your willingness to consider my offer. You've made a wise choice. I will set up the trust fund for little Timothy tomorrow morning, as we agreed. And now, if you will excuse me, I need to install my new pain slave into his place in the dungeon."

David had told us several months ago of what Jason's fate would be should we finally agree to his continually increasing offers to buy him. David wasn't interested in using Jason for sex. He already had Odin for that. No, our sensitive, innocent eleven-year-old son would be a pain slave, strictly and cruelly bound at all times, never leaving David's dungeon again, hideously tortured for hours on end. Jason would be whipped, burned, beaten, electrocuted, all sorts of things shoved up his butt and in his mouth, used as a urinal and degraded in unimaginable ways, all under David's meticulous sadistic care, all while Odin crawled obediently at his master's side. Why would any sane parents agree to this? Simple. The money. The money he was offering, the financial security for a lifetime. I mean, what would you do? We could always have another kid, but we would never see an opportunity like this one again.

David's hands were already digging into Jason's bare shoulders. Dylan looked on through his doggie-mask, clearly surprised at this turn of events but no longer willing or able to express any emotions on his eleven-year-old brother's fate.

We left David's house with Timmy in tow. Jason stared after us but was no longer able to speak with the cruel ring-gag now strapped around his head. I took one last look at my naked sons, Dylan and Jason, or Odin and Thor was they were now known, collared and enslaved by my own hand. I left the house with my somewhat smaller and now much more financially secure family. When I reached the car, I finally looked down at the check and smiled in approval. It is a cold and cruel world, and sometimes a boy or boys must be sacrificed the good of another, for the good of family and the future.

'Two million dollars' was written in David's neat script. Payment in full for both Dylan and Jason. We drove away that night pleased with our shrewd business sense. Timmy would be going to a prestigious university when he came of age, and his newly established trust fund would make him a multi-millionaire. Now we could give him the world.

Or so we thought. Two days later we received a call from our bank that David's check had bounced. Further there was no trust fund set up in Timothy's name. David had already sold his house the night we were there turning Jason over to him. We learned from neighbors that the movers came the very next morning, taking him and our boys to a château in rural France that had been in his family for generations. He was beyond our reach and beyond our laws. My grand total for selling two of my sons into slavery? That first quarterly payment from Dylan's original sale, a whopping sum of five thousand dollars.

As for Dylan and Jason, we never saw either of our boys in the flesh again. Occasionally a home-produced DVD will arrive in the mail, showing Odin and Thor with their master and his many friends. Rebecca watches them faithfully. I never do. I don't really have the time, you see. While she's watching the latest video, I'm heading down to the basement where Timmy is waiting for me, naked and chained to the rafters. He raises his tired puffy tear-filled eyes as I approach his bruised and battered little body. His tiny cock his hard and his hairless scrotum is still an angry shade of red from the whipping I gave it just an hour earlier. I see that the boy has allowed the huge dildo that was in his butt to fall out onto the floor between his feet.

"No, no, no, Timmy," I say as I select a whip from the many hanging on the wall next to the washing machine. I pick up the blood and shit-stained dildo and wipe it clean on the nine-year-old's chest. "I told you to keep this in your butt. Now I'm afraid we have to start all over again."

The boy sobs and tells me he hurts and begs me to take him down, but I have no room for leniency. I'm training him to be a perfectly obedient little slave boy. There is money to be made in selling one's own sons, and I'm determined to finally get my fair share.

The End

NEXT STORY