^Paolox3_

Zero,
the Special-Needs Slaveboy

Chapter 1

I'd never been to a slave auction, mainly because I'd never even considered buying a slaveboy of my own. Of course I knew how much raising a boy could cost, since I'd just seen my otherwise orphaned nephew (whom I'd raised) graduate from college that previous spring. Suffice it to say, had I not taken him in – and had there not been insurance with a good payoff upon his parents' demise – then Nephew would have just as easily ended up in an auction like this as well.

But all that's neither here nor there. Suffice it to say, after almost nineteen years of watching a beautiful boy grow into a handsome young man, the last year alone in that too-big house had really gotten to me. Sometimes I could still hear him; that, or I was losing my sanity.

It wasn't that I missed the sex. Not at all. Nephew was incorrigibly heterosexual, but I never held that against him. Granted, some of his punishments during his formative years may have been a bit unorthodox, but as I said, that's neither here nor there. Let's just say he wasn't the perfect child and required a firm hand. He'd even had a boyfriend once, when he'd been about fourteen. But in the end, he decided that he just liked girls better. He didn't fault his "old, weird, gay Uncle" for being a homosexual, though, and he'd turned out all right in the end.

Well, no one's perfect.

Then, one day, I looked up and realized that my entire life was pulling out of the driveway in a new car and not coming back until Christmas next. Then not until summer. Four times. Then – not at all.

That was five years ago.

And my house was now an empty nest, haunted by echoes of a boy's voice that only I could still hear.

'Bye! Love you, Uncle! I'll call when I get in the dorm!
'Let's order the senior picture where I'm on the white set, no shirt and shoes.'
'Can I be a Boy Scout?'
'I'm sick, I can't go to school!'
"'tan I doh tooo my fwindz howz?'
"Uhnk-kuhl!'

I supposed that's why I came to my first auction, even though I knew nothing about owning a slaveboy. Marvin, a friend from work, suggested it to me in (what I thought) was a joking manner. That, or Marvin and the guys were just tired of how I was moping around the office like someone had just run over my cat.

I knew, of course, that Marvin had a slaveboy of his own, but he never talked about it much. Hell, a lot of people with good jobs like ours had slaveboys; some had slavegirls. To each his own, I always say. Me, I always liked slightly younger men, professionals themselves, and I'd never even considered a boy as partner. I still didn't, really. I guess, on some level, it would feel too much like fucking my nephew or the kid next door who helped take care of my lawn for an exorbitant fee of 50CR/week!

But after raising Nephew, I figured I could handle a slaveboy. If he got out of line, I could just put him in a cage or spank the snot out of him. Not that Nephew's bum didn't get its share of spankings over the years, though.

I didn't drive to the auction, as it was only a dozen blocks walk from work. I'm glad I didn't, since my five-year-old ride would have embarrassed me to no end when I saw what the valets were parking for the other customers. That, and I liked the night air after a day in the office. I should probably mention that I'm not exactly low-budget. My career has been successful, and I was very well paid for my initial designs of the holographic emitters that my own nephew was now going off to work with.

Still, it looked to me like some of these gents were pretty high rollers!

I informed the guards at the door that I was there to take in the auction, perhaps even buy, as they scanned my ID and sold me a ticket. Not just anyone could waltz right in, though. Apparently, my societal standing was good enough to allow me in with the bidders and not the spectators.

What it wasn't good enough for was buying a slaveboy!

Well, I suppose I should say that it wasn't good enough for buying a 'good' slaveboy. By that, I mean that I saw right off that there was no chance in hell that I'd be leaving with a nine-year-old, blond-haired, blue-eyed, miniature Adonis – after the first one of those sold for just shy of four million CR's.

What I'd hoped to leave with, and what I did leave with, were two entirely different things!

I first saw him when the dozen or so boys were led out onto the stage. The stock for sale was always displayed naked, but in full restraints: a standard – but functional – steel slave collar, plain wrist and ankle cuffs connected by a 12" [30 cm] length of chain, red ball gags in their mouths, and generic black chastity belts that made it impossible for the boys to touch (or even see) their genitals.

I was surprised to see that when the auctioneer took the stage as well, after guards had secured the slaveboys' ankle cuffs to small eyelets in the floor to prevent movement, that holographic representations of the stock appeared next to each boy. It made it look like there were twice as many boys for sale, sets of twins – even, and the holograms were completely nude and smiling. Some even waved shyly, turning this way and that, showing off their 'stuff' that was hidden away in real life. They looked happy, even.

All but for one.

The crowd of well-dressed (and financially-well-armed) men began to murmur as the auctioneer read the first dossier of the youngest boy for sale. I assumed that the youngest ones would be sold first, the night ending with the oldest.

"Beginning with Lot #011, this boy is of pure African heritage, only six years old. His parents were apprehended on drug and prostitution charges, so this boy is no stranger to a man's cock!" The auctioneer laughed, as did many of the bidders. "By law, he is now property of the State, but too young for a work gang – thus, his presence here tonight. Who will open the bidding at 250k/CR? This model still had a lot of his baby fat under his dark, almost-blue toned skin, gentlemen, and as his long beaded braids suggest, he's never had a haircut!"

The bids began in earnest and went up frighteningly fast.
500k/CR? I gasped inwardly. That was nearly a fifth of my retirement plan, after twenty years with the company!

The kid brought 795k/CR. I cringed in my seat.
Boy #010 was Asian, I didn't catch from where, but he fetched ~820k/CR.

By the time we'd hit Boy #006, I knew I didn't have a chance. The bids just kept going up. I couldn't help but wondering, though, why the one on the end, apparently last, was staring up at the ceiling. Didn't he know what was about to happen to him? It was like he wasn't 'all there' or something.

I also soon noticed that the older the boys got, and the more well-defined their little bodies were, the more CR's they fetched. It was by age, not looks, and the lookers were bringing enough in bids to wipe me out.

To make a long story short, Boy #001 was the Adonis I'd mentioned. Of course, he'd been the first to catch everyone's eye with his nearly-twelve-year-old form, and he fetched the highest of the ever-increasing bids.

"SOLD to the gentleman in row three for 4-million/CR!" The auctioneer called out.

I watched as an older gentleman in a fine blue suit, which probably cost more than my house, led his new acquisition from the stage. As he gave the boy's perfect behind a quick swat with his hand to move him along, the boy's chain clinking on the steps, I had no doubt what kind of life lay in store for Adonis, Jr. The tent in the front of his buyer's trousers was evidence to that.

My own cock was hard as granite, and I'd since moved a handkerchief into my shorts to hide the forming wet spot! I hadn't been the only one either, as there seemed to have been more than a bit of 'pocket pool' being played in the ranks of bidders! I admit I was surprised at myself, as I said, I'd never considered a boyslave before.

That left only one boy onstage.

There were a few groans from the crowd, and even though a few outbid patrons had gotten up and left midway through the sale, there was quite the exodus as the auctioneer began to read the file on Boy #000. I wondered if it was through experience, that these other men had learned that you didn't want to buy the last one offered? Weren't beggars not supposed to be choosers?

'Hell,' I thought, 'There's no way this funny-looking is kid going to bring 4-mill!'

"Boy #000 may be the oldest, at nearly thirteen years, if not the biggest of the lot, nor the most attractive," he began, "His parents died heavily in debt, and #000 was their only remaining asset. His only relative, an elderly Grandfather, has cared for him for the last year or so, but alas, the dear gentleman passed away a few months ago. As you can see," the auctioneer paused, giving the boy a smart smack across his bare bum with his pointing stick, "He has trouble PAYING ATTENTION!"

I myself winced as the boy made an animal-like howl of pain, straining at his ankle restraints, and falling over on his back to curl up into a shivering little ball. He started to rock back and forth then, but he made no other sound. It was the first sign he'd shown all evening that he even knew that something was going on.

"Defective," someone in the crowd muttered, as even more of the bidders got up to leave.
"Brown over brown?" Another scoffed.
"Skin and bones!"
"He's so plain!" Yet another laughed.

I looked closer. Yes, the boy was plain. One might not have given him a second glance in a crowd. In a word, he was 'ordinary'.

"As you can see, the boy is somewhat racially mixed," the auctioneer continued nervously, as if he feared that his last piece of merchandise wasn't going to sell at all – much less recover the costs that I could only imagine that he must have run up for the Clearing House so far.

In short, Boy #000 wasn't just 'defective' – he was a mess.

His mop of dark brown hair, which matched the color of his very slightly almond-shaped eyes, was clean but shaggy and unstyled. His ears were adorably small, when they could be seen. His skin was just darker than that of a Caucasian boy that spent a great deal of time outside in the sun; a bit more yellow, I thought. He had just the faintest hint of the beginnings of musculature on his slight frame, but I could just make out his ribs. The poor kid looked hungry to me, and I found myself thinking of Nephew and how he hated green vegetables…

Awwwww, do I have to eat THAT, Uncle?

I saw that no one had tried to get the cowering Boy #000 back on his feet, and the auctioneer turned our attention to the hologram instead. I'd built that holo-control deck, I realized.

"Our medical staff has determined that Boy #000 must be autistic – if not just plain stupid. He does not speak, according to his medical records, and he seldom acknowledges anyone around him. Pain seems to be the only stimulus he responds to, and he doesn't like it at all!"

There was no laughter at the small joke. I know I failed to see the humor in it. I could only imagine what the Clearing House had already put this unfortunate, special child through in the months that they'd had him. The last thing this kid needed was for a buyer with a penchant for S&M to get hold of him, the way he'd howled when he'd been caned once tonight with the pointer.

The auctioneer cleared his throat and went on.

"We aren't sure of his exact racial heritage, as we've not seen fit to invest the cost of genetic profiling on him. He may or may not be homosexual, for those of you interested in a bed-boy – which may well be the only thing he's good for. As the law requires," he accentuated the hologram's genitals, "The boy has been sterilized via a radical vasectomy, as well as given the most severe circumcision to discourage his interest in his own genitals. The expense of surgical castration, which requires far more healing time and expense, would be left to the buyer."

"Look at his build! He's too old, too close to puberty!" Someone in the back row called out, "Who'd want him for that, then?"

For just an instant, the boy looked up, squinting all around. Then his soft brown eyes went blank as he began staring at something that apparently only he could see.

Castration? I wondered, looking closer at the thin scars on the holo-boy's hairless and snug scrotum. Now that's just entirely too cruel!

"As for other medical notes, Boy #000 is also dreadfully nearsighted; we estimate him to be 20/400 uncorrected – corrective eyewear or surgery costs will be incurred by the buyer. He seems to have allergies as well, and can't even take a standard intelligence test. In all honesty, gentlemen," the auctioneer admitted with a sigh and a shrug, "This puny one doesn't have much to offer and is probably going to be more trouble to anyone than he'll ever be worth. We're not even sure he understands when you speak to him."

As if on queue, the boy coughed.

"Then why's he even here?" Someone in the dwindling crowd demanded aloud.
"Talk about high maintenance!" Someone else jeered.
"Hell, the Donor Program wouldn't want him!" Another laughed, as he left.

"We simply need to recover our costs," the auctioneer confessed.

"PISSSSSH!" Someone else scoffed, as even more bidders left.

I looked around. There were only two of us left sitting in the room. It looked like the party was over.

On the stage, Boy #000's chastity belt began to leak.

"He's…erm…also prone to accidents," The auctioneer added reluctantly, "If not for the plug in his tight little butt…"

"Take him," the man next to me muttered, as he too, left the room.

"Sir, shall we remove #000 now?" An attendee called from the wings of the stage. I assumed it was a Clearing House staff slaveboy.

Your nephew will be remanded to temporary foster care until a hearing can be arranged…

The auctioneer was now staring at me imploringly. I had to wonder – if they lost money on #000, would it come out of his pay? Was that what he was worried about? Being unfamiliar with slave auctions, even I had realized that a total walkout must have been unheard of. The auctioneer was staring at me.

I stared back.

Boy #000 stared at the ceiling, oblivious to the fact that he'd wet himself.

What is wrong with these people? I was thinking, as I got up as well. This whole turn of events had disgusted me, and I was shocked that unfortunate children could be treated as such. I simply wanted to go, and have nothing else to do with it. I'd seen enough. I'd been through enough with my own Nephew.

Yet I glanced back at just the smallest sound.

The auctioneer then made a motion towards the wing, waving his stick and then pointing it at the boy. Boy #000 had cowered and wailed again, curling back into a trembling ball as the man prepared to strike him.

Under the spotlight, I could see his bare back and buttocks.

"WAIT!" I called out, as a similarly unattired, but older slaveboy came out with a heavier chain and what looked like a cruel prod of some kind.

I looked at the pathetic little boy on the stage before me, without even realizing that I'd already mounted the steps.

Uncle, I peed the bed! I'm sorry! I can't help it!

Then those liquid brown eyes locked onto me, and for just a moment, through the tears, there was a sparkle of clarity.

Don't let them take me, Uncle! I could almost hear that little voice from my empty house saying, that voice that had obviously followed me to this place that night. PLEASE don't let them make me a slave! I shook my head and looked down at my shoes, fine leather, but not nearly so fine as some of the other buyers' footwear that night. I felt so very out of place.

Then the boy began rocking again, whimpering into his ball gag.

"What happens to him if he doesn't sell tonight?" I had to ask.

The hologram then shut off with a SNAP! of a circuit breaker.

The auctioneer sighed. "First timers," he muttered. "By law, the State will take him back and won't refund us our expenses of prepping him for sale. He's far too defective for a work gang, and they won't spend funds on caring for him. If he were a free boy, he could be institutionalized, helped perhaps. If he were adoptable, he'd have never come here to begin with, so that's out."

"WHAT WILL THEY DO WITH HIM?" I demanded in sudden heat, remembering the panic I'd felt when Nephew's parents had died. I remembered them taking him away for a seeming eternity, screaming in panic, into care. I remembered my lawyer finally handing me the custody papers, and saying that there was a bit of insurance money left over. I remembered the relief that my beautiful boy wouldn't be facing slavery.

'I get to come and live with you, Uncle! I'm still free!'

It could just as easily have been Nephew cowering on that stage.

The auctioneer shook his head. "He'll either be sold for cost to a medical research facility dealing in neurological disorders, or he'll be handed over to the Donor Program to be parted out to some ailing free boys. In either case, it pretty much amounts to just putting him down like an unwanted cat or dog. The difference is, though, I'm sure, he will – unlike a homeless pet – suffer."

"How much for the boy?" It was as if someone else were asking, and I were only there listening.

"How much are you offering?" The auctioneer retorted. "He's basically worthless. I knew he wouldn't sell."

"He's a living, feeling, boy!" I replied, "My God, man! Can't you see that?"

Indeed! WHY couldn't he see that? Why couldn't any of THEM, those who'd walked out in anger or disgust, see what right before them?

"Sir, he's a slave," I was reminded, "A defective slave."

'Defective'? I marveled.

Couldn't they see the thin, but near-perfect proportions of his 4.5-foot [1.30 cm] frame, if he were even that tall? Couldn't they see the soft, cute mop of thick hair that was just begging to be cut?

I'd always cut Nephew's hair, and I was quite good at it. A real CR-saver, that skill!

And couldn't they see the symmetry of his smooth, if not plain, face? Those round little ears that would be so cute with diamonds or gold rings in them? What about his pert nose, or the fact that there wasn't a blemish on his fuzz-free face? And weren't the teeth on the holo-boy #000 white, if not a bit crooked, before they'd shut it off? Couldn't they see how the contrast of his red lips stood out from the yellow-tan of that innocent face?

Where was the appreciation for the just-blossoming muscle tone, or the curvature of his chest that indicated high lung capacity? Didn't they see how his bright nails stood out from his dark hands? The boy might be a virtuoso at music, an athlete, or a savant of some other amazing talent!

I remembered the hologram that I'd been staring at for so long while Boys #011-001 had been sold off. Hadn't one of them been a redhead? I hadn't been watching them, I realized. I couldn't tell you what Boy #004 had looked like.

Had anyone even looked at Boy #000, with anything other than derision? Had any of them felt the lust for him that they'd felt for, say, 'Adonis Jr.', the 4-million/CR blond?

Could none of them have seen how #000's pink little glans penis, mounted on maybe a centimeter or two [1 inch] of soft shaft, had that round discolored scar just behind it? It was so smooth, with no annoying stretched frenulum below it to curve it in a breve. And his tight little scarred scrotum – they'd already cut him open to unfairly sterilize him, and even considered castrating him. All of this, locked away behind the tight chastity belt, had been so beautifully evident in the lifelike hologram.

And didn't anyone appreciate the hardness that was evident in the muscles of his straining legs as he struggled with the simple clips that secured his ankles to the rings in the floor? And what about those tiny little feet, that might have been a size 5 (USA), if that? The evenness of his toes, the high arches?

I'd never understood art, mind you, but in that instant, I immediately understood what I'd failed to see in modern 'art' before.

And they were going to throw it away.

Boy #000 was going to be put down like a dog, and no one cared.

"I'm not a wealthy man," I admitted, "But I'm not suffering, either. How much?" I repeated in a threatening tone.

The auctioneer handed me a data padd.

"Oh!"

If I were to purchase Boy #000 as my slave, it was going to take a good third of my retirement fund.

"You have got to be kidding!" I scoffed.

But if the boy understood that we were haggling over his life, he made no sign of it.

"Sir," the auctioneer wheedled, "He's untrainable, trust me. Keep in mind that this one will surely run up more costs for you. We've tried and tried to train him, and the labor costs have been enormous for us, and the State, already. Law requires the restraints, but you'll have to buy your own and send ours back – once you get him home."

I nodded. "I can see from the faded scars that you've tried and tried," I muttered, "Medermal-18 is a better healing agent."

"Then there's the matter of old-fashioned glasses, or corrective eye surgery. You could probably improve his resale value if you had him castrated, and some Thoraz-23 might make him more tractable; stuff's not cheap, either."

('Thoraz-23' was a powerful drug, which, for all intents and purposes, strapped the brain into a mental straightjacket. It was costly, and it rendered the taker little more than a drooling vegetable.) And wasn't this prick even LISTENING to me?! He was just going on and on, about eyeglasses?

"If you don't have him castrated, I should remind you, his Luprox-12 injection will wear off in six months. I'm afraid it's frightfully expensive as well."

All this time, I'd been too busy glaring at the auctioneer to notice that Boy #000 was now sitting up, hugging his knees, and staring up at me with those pleading, soft eyes of his.

"Sir, if you mention cutting his balls off one more time, I shall tear yours off myself!" I informed him bluntly. The attending slaveboy behind us dropped his prod and backed up in shock. "You've already vasectomized him, pumped him full of chemical castration drugs in hopes of selling him as a prepubescent despite his age, and scarred him. Wasn't that enough to put him through? Tell me the truth, how OLD is he, really? I know slight dwarfism when I see it. He won't get much bigger."

THAT was why I'd noticed his build. His proportions. He was so short, but just about balanced like a man already.

"Do you want him or not?" This dealer of boyflesh demanded hotly.

Again, those brown eyes looking up at me.

Uncle, don't let them take me!

"I'll be damned!" The auctioneer then wondered aloud, "He's been staring at you this whole time! He's never focused on someone for that long!"

Those eyes followed my hand's every movement as I pulled out my phone and made a call. "Marv? Yes, it's me. Say, what's the master maintenance code for our Model-VII Padd device? End in '3' or '4'? Oh? Never mind, thanks! I'll call you tomorrow. 'Bye!" (We made the padd's control chips at work, too, just so you know.)

I tapped the code in and the padd promptly told me just how much had been invested in Boy #000. I know my jaw must have dropped. I could feel my face reddening.

I handed it back to the auctioneer, the charlatan!

"That's my final offer," I told him rudely.

The auctioneer looked a bit ill, but he knew he'd been had.

"Think of it this way – you've already brought in millions on those other boys. I think your profit margin is secure," I told him, "What did Blondie there bring? Four million? You haven't spent enough on this one to even feed him!"

Boy #000 then sneezed. Messily. All over his captor's shoes. I gave him my handkerchief, his wrist chain clinking as he blew his pert little nose and handed it back to me. I offered it to my host, who declined.

At some point, I noticed, the poor boy's nose had been broken and had a delightful tiny crook to the bridge.

"Boy!" The auctioneer then barked at the house slave in disgust, "Go and fetch the files for Boy #000, all records and bill of sale," he then switched the padd to sales mode, and I scanned my ID. The teenage slaveboy scampered off to return with an owner's manual and all records on another padd for my new purchase.

"Funds transfer complete, 100k/CR," the computer's voice chimed, as it scanned my ID again and scanned the black barcode tattooed on Boy #000's bum cheek.

It wasn't even a dent in my pension plan savings.

"Ownership of Lot #000," the padd recited, "Transferred. All sales are final! Thank you for shopping our Clearing House!"

"You, sir, are a pig," I told the beaten auctioneer, looking down at my new bargain slaveboy.

I didn't even know his name.

"Unlock his feet, and take that gag out," I snapped. The teen slaveboy did that with a nod from his apparent master.

Boy #000 just stood there, still staring at me. I hadn't noticed when he'd stood up. He just stood there with his hands clasped in front of his cute little 'innie-navel', rocking on the balls of his feet as if he were hearing music only he could hear.

"What's his name?" I asked.

Boy #000 looked confused. He cocked his head. His hair fell down over his eyes.

And he smiled at me.

"Slaves don't have names," The auctioneer sneered, "Now take this dirty little pest and get him out of here!" And with that, he spun on his heel and stormed off the stage.

I looked at the padd, but there was no name. Just "BOY#000" in bright green letters.
Apparently his identity had been erased, right along with his freedom.

Very slowly, I offered this special, needy child my free hand.

He looked at it, fidgeted a bit, then took a hesitant step towards me. He took another. It looked like he wanted to reach around behind his back, but chained as he was, he couldn't. I assumed he wanted his butt plug out, but could not reach it.

"Sir, you'll be needing these!" The nervous teenage slaveboy spoke up, offering me a set of keys and a leash. "And Master says to remind you to send the House's restraint kit back in three days, or you'll be billed for it! And we include this," he handed me a small tube of cheap healing gel, "For his barcode tattoo on his bum. You'll have to pay for his chest tattoo yourself, Sir! I'm sorry! You've got thirty days to get that done, or there's a fine."

"Thank you, boy," I answered him, "Uhm, carry on?"

"Sir!" He replied smartly. I think he was just happy that I didn't hit him or something?

"Ready to go home?" I asked my new slaveboy with no name.

And he reached out and took my hand.

That soft, pink little palm of his was very warm in my own, and his grip was like a vice!

I dropped the leash on the stage. Somehow, I didn't think we'd need it.

It was still warm out as we exited the Clearing House and onto the busy street of a typical Friday night in town. I walked slowly, watching as Boy #000 toddled along at my side. He was crushing my hand, but his shaggy head never stopped moving as he took in the sights and sounds. He was walking with a spring to his step, though, and I realized that the pavement must be hot on his bare feet as his ankle chain scraped along in time with his short strides.

That, and I had no idea how large of a plug was residing in his rectum. He certainly looked uncomfortable to me, and I saw that he was trembling just a little. He made it the dozen or so blocks back to the office, though, and he didn't protest as I buckled the little trooper in the passenger seat.

He was asleep by the time I got him home, nearly an hour-long commute.

He still hadn't made a sound.

Very carefully, I unbuckled him and lifted him up. He was so light, and I could feel his ribs as I placed him on my hip like a toddler. He stirred, tensed up, then whimpered once. I could feel the first signs of a struggle beginning.

"Hey, hey! Calm down!" I implored him, shifting so that he'd not feel the throbbing erection in my pants and become even more agitated. "We're home, is all. You fell asleep in the car, my boy."

He just shook his head, making a high-pitched keening wail through pursed lips. I was afraid I'd drop him, so I put him down on his bare feet. I didn't stop to think about the gravel driveway, and he squealed and spun, his ankle chain tripping him up as he went down hard. He wasn't the first little boy to fall down, I remembered, with just a touch of melancholy.

'Uncle, check out what I can do on my skateboard!'

Other than a startled gasp, he made no other sound as he sat there silently crying.

"Look, boy," I said softly, resisting the urge to rub his nape or tickle his ribs, "I don't know what all they did to you. I know you must miss your folks, and your Grandpa. I know the slave dealers hurt you, gave you drugs, and did surgery on your boy-parts. I know it hurt. But I want you to know something, boy."

He still didn't look up, and I wondered if it had all been just a fluke? What had I gotten myself into? What if he was autistic, or worse, and not just traumatized and wild? What if it were more than simple frustration and anger at being enslaved, which he had every right to feel?

Promise, no one can take me away again, Uncle?

What had I just done?
How was I going to handle him?

'Now's a fine time to realize it!' I chided myself, since all sales were final.

"Just because I bought you doesn't mean I'm going to hurt you anymore. I will punish you if you're bad, you need to know – just like I did my nephew when he was a boy here. Do you understand me?"

And there in the glow of the headlights, he nodded.

"But I will never hit you with a stick like that man did tonight. The worst I will ever do to you is put your bare butt over my knee and spank you with my hand. I won't keep you in a cage, either. You will have your very own bedroom, just like my nephew did."

He turned around and looked at me, his face streaked with tears and his hair in his eyes. He looked so vulnerable and downright adorable that I choked.

His skinned knee was bleeding.

"Want me to clean that up?"

He nodded, still making eye contact.

Uncle, help! I fell off my bike! I'm bleeding!

I offered him my hand, and he took it.

Uncle, carry me!

He let me carry him inside, since the sharp rocks were clearly hurting his tender little feet. He looked all around the kitchen as I got out a first aid kit. He hung his head in shame when he wet himself as the antiseptic burned his hurt knee.

Then he touched my face.

I hadn't realized that I must have been crying. My new slaveboy looked confused.

"Let's get you ready for bed, boy, you've had a rough day," I told him, holding out my arms. He let me pick him up and place him on the kitchen counter, his bare feet in the sink as I ran some warm water and removed his ankle chain.

And he actually laughed as I scrubbed the street dirt from his little toes, wondering at the pedicure they must have given him. His fingernails were perfect, too, little half-moons shining at the cuticles. His white toenails contrasted his darker feet, but his soles were a lighter color.

"Don't pee again!" I smiled at him, as he played with the soap bubbles and just laughed more.

It was a beautiful sound.

Once dried off, I fed him. The kid ate like a horse, putting Nephew to shame at that age! One thing I was sure of, they must have starved him as punishment. He took his plate and scurried under the table, refusing to come out and wolfing his food. I just watched him, and let him eat his fill.

He didn't know how to brush his teeth, either, so I helped him with that. I also had to help him with use the toilet, when he indicated that by pointing to the commode. His plug wasn't that big, but he yelped when I pulled it out quickly. The kid's 'business' smelled really bad, too, and I made a note to get him an enema kit. I had a feeling that he'd need a good cleaning out, and on a daily basis, at that!

When he was done, he surprised me by obediently bending over so that I could put his clean plug back in him. He fidgeted a bit to seat it, and that was that. I'd expected a battle, but I got none.

Maybe he liked it after all?
Or maybe he was still afraid I'd hit him?

Then I showed him his room.

Even though Nephew had told me that he'd taken everything that he wanted, he'd been a packrat. Everything was just as he'd left it, and my slaveboy's eyes were wide in wonder. Other than a bit of dust, it looked like a young boy still inhabited the bedroom that was now – really – just a shrine to the boy who had moved on. I guessed it must have looked like a treasure trove to my new slaveboy.

"Bedtime, boy."

He stared at me. Then he pointed to the bed, then to his confined crotch. I got it at once.

"You scared you'll pee the bed?" I asked, and he nodded. I laughed, and wondered if there might still be a box of Goodnights in the closet from when Nephew had been smaller. He'd been a bedwetter up until he'd been eleven, but damn, he'd been so adorable in those snug blue "big boy diapers."

The box was still there, and luckily, they fit my new slaveboy. He looked pleased and nodded, pointing to himself, then the bed, over and over and shaking his head 'no'.

"Yes, your bed," I assured him. "Now, I'm going to attach one of your ankle cuffs with the chain to the bedpost, so you can't get up, OK? If you need me, you have to yell. I don't want you wandering off."

I started to tuck him in, but suddenly he sat up with a whimper and I felt his wrist chain hit my neck as he reached for me. For just a moment, I thought he was attacking me, waving his hands and whimpering.

Did he want a hug? I took the wrist chain off, and he was on me in an instant. He buried his face in my shoulder, clutching at me, sobbing.

"It's OK, Zero," I said without thinking, "It's OK. Uncle's right here."

I'm not sure how long he cried on my shoulder, but it broke my heart all the same. Here was a very special boy, and one that had nearly been thrown away because no one else could see how special he was. He might have many needs, but he also had a lot to give in return.

Uncle, read me a story?

I laid him back and tucked him in. I kissed those smooth, red lips of his in a goodnight wish, chaste, but he returned it – hard!

I was so taken that I pulled back.

And then it happened.

"Uncle?" He said in a piping, soprano voice.

"Zero?" I called him that again, hoping he wouldn't mind.

He smiled at me and nodded.

Then he snuggled down in his pillow, curled up on his side, and closed his eyes. He was so beautiful, his shaggy head turned in profile and his hands folded on the pillow by his flawless face. Just a few links of his wrist chain were visible, and his steel collar reflected the orange nightlight in a soft glow.

"Zee-W-ohh," he agreed, his breathing becoming slow and regular as his little fists uncurled against the pillowcase.

"'night, Zero," I whispered, kissing his round little ear.

"Uhhhnk-kuhhhl," he slurred sleepily.

"Priceless art," I whispered, but Zero was sound asleep. "All he needs is a little more paint, a different brush, a good frame!"

Chapter 2
First Trip Out

It didn't take long to realize that I wasn't going to get much, if any, sleep that night. I stood there in the doorway to Nephew's old room for a while, watching Zero sleep. I always preferred a cool room in the summer months, and so had Nephew. We slept better with blankets. Maybe it was a feeling of security, being covered?

I figured Zero would need all the security he could get, too.

I went to my own bedroom down the hall and tried to occupy myself with Zero's owner's manual. It wasn't actually 'his' – it was just a generic how-to guide about how some idiot thought I should raise my slaveboy.

I didn't care for it at all, and it only took me one page to discover this. I knew Zero wouldn't like it either, and I could only imagine his reactions to the disciplinary techniques they'd outlined for difficult slaves.

"Zero," I mumbled.

It wasn't even his real name.

I had to wonder if this ordinary, unwanted boy even knew his own name. And if he did, could he even tell me? Yet they'd said he couldn't speak, and he'd said "Uncle!" quite clearly when I'd put him to bed. That sweet little smile and nod of his shaggy head as he'd tried to say "Zero" came to mind, and remembering it made me feel that he liked it.

"Zeee-whoa!" He'd tried to say it. It was so damn cute!

I put the manual down and got up to get a glass of warm milk. Perhaps that would help.

On the way downstairs, I stopped at Zero's door. I'd left it open out of concern, so that if he had a problem and yelled, I could hear him. Ball gags -what a stupid idea! What if the boy had a nightmare or something and needed me?

Then I remembered the baby monitor.

It was silly, I knew, and Nephew had never known that his bedroom was 'bugged'. Granted, he wasn't a baby when he'd come to live with me, but I was paranoid all the same. I just had to know where he was and what he was doing at all times. He must have wondered how I always knew he needed me, though, and I'm sure he'd be mortified to this day if he only knew how many hours of entertainment that monitor had given me when he'd finally hit puberty! After all, a boy's favorite toys at that age are the ones that are attached to his crotch.

Ohhhhh, hell yeah! Ahhhhh! Oh no, all over the sheets!

Very quietly, I entered Zero's room and turned the old audio/video monitor on. Hidden in the frame of the full-length mirror on the closet door, I was sure that Zero would never notice it. I felt better already, but I was still worrying about what the coming days had in store for us.

What had I gotten myself into?

An endless string of what-ifs began running through my mind:
What if he was prone to 'meltdowns'?
Could I even take him out in public?
Would I have to punish him?
What if he got sick?
Were there doctors that handled slaveboys?
Could I afford care for him, if he needed something major?

It's just pneumonia, sir, your nephew will recover in time.

But the difference was that the State Health Care system, SHC, didn't cover slaves. I would have to pay real CR's for Zero's care, out of pocket.

The warm milk didn't help. I just sat there at the kitchen table, where Zero had left crumbs under it from his dinner. I'm sure the user's guide agreed with that, but I was going to try and coax the boy to sit in a chair in the morning and eat his breakfast like a civilized human being.

"Assholes," I muttered, watching on my laptop as the small window in the upper left corner showed the wirelessly routed image of Zero sleeping. He hadn't moved a millimeter, it seemed; the kid was a deep sleeper, surprisingly. Nephew had problems with nightmares when he'd first come home to me from being in care for all those endless months.

Can I sleep in your bed, Uncle? It's too dark and quiet in my room! There's no other boys in there.

"Computer," I told the laptop, "List local doctors that specialize in males."

"Specify general practitioners or specialty services," it replied.

"General."

"Working."

It gave me a list of about a dozen names in the metro area. "Refine search to pediatricians that see slaveboys," I told it.

The list immediately narrowed to one name: Dr. Sebastian Collins.

"There's only ONE?!" I gasped, "What the hell?"

"Affirmative. Go to website?" The infernal machine offered. I agreed, and booked an appointment for Zero. He might not like it, but surprisingly, there was a slot open for Sunday. I booked it. "Odd?"

I closed the web browser, and just sat there watching Zero sleeping. There was the hint of a smile on his plain little face, and his eyes were moving behind closed lids. I wondered what he was dreaming about as I went to bed around 3:00 AM.

Zero slept all night long, though.

That stupid owner's manual suggested that a slaveboy be awakened suddenly, recommending a hard slap to his bum to rouse him. What kind of way was that to start your day? Being jolted awake by a spanking you hadn't earned? No, I'd already promised my boy I wouldn't do that to him unless he was bad. I didn't want him confused, that was certain. I woke him up gently instead.

Even that was enough to panic him.

I don' wanna get up, Uncle 3;sleep in 3;

Zero's awakening wasn't anything like Nephew's had always been. I sometimes had to literally drag his carcass out of bed!

Not Zero.

He jolted awake as soon as I touched his mop of messy brown hair, screaming. He looked around the room, head whipping this way and that, brown eyes wild in fear. He was shaking and huddling in the corner as far as his leg chain would allow him, clutching his blankets up under his chin and rocking.

I backed off.

"Zero, it's OK," I assured him, "This is your new room, remember? Remember Uncle putting you to bed last night? Did you sleep good?"

It took a moment or two, but when he blinked a few times, I saw that flash of clarity come back to his ever-so-slanted eyes. He looked around again, scratched his head, then sighed heavily.

"Uh-huhhhhh," he finally nodded, but that was all he said as his narrow shoulders slumped.

"Time to get up," I prompted him, "Uncle's gonna unchain your feet, OK?"

He nodded again.

I uncovered him, and I could tell at once that his Goodnights diaper was soaked. I could smell it, and it had leaked a little. Zero saw it, too. He hung his head and started to cry.

I tried to assure him that is was OK, that the diaper was old, and that it wasn't any trouble to wash the sheets. Once we got over that hurdle, and I got him away from the seemingly fascinating washing machine, I disposed of his soaking diaper and unplugged him. He yelped again, but stood there calmly as I washed the plug and set it aside.

Zero just sat on the commode and looked at me as if he didn't know what to do.

"You don't have to go?"

He shook his head. His hair fell down in his face again.

I remembered the owner's manual tip on keeping a slaveboy clean. Being plugged all the time could lead to constipation if an enema wasn't administered at least once a day, usually in the morning, but they recommended no more than three a day.

"Do you know when you have to go?" I asked him. Zero just shrugged. Then I heard him peeing again. "How about a bath before breakfast?" I offered.

He nodded and smiled at me, and it sounds silly, but that smile brightened the room.

"You stay there while I go get your key, OK? I don't want to get your gear wet. We have to send those back and get new ones." I figured we'd do that today. I'd already looked up stores that carried slave gear, choosing the one the laptop suggested for smaller slaveboys.

I guess you could say he obeyed me. When I got back, a steamy bath was running and the tub was filling with suds. Zero had dumped the whole bottle of body wash in and had both taps running full blast! He was standing there smiling and clapping his hands in delight.

Do I have to get a bath, Uncle? I'm not THAT dirty!

He wasn't sure about having his gear taken off, and he stood there rubbing at his wrists and then feeling at his neck. His chastity belt came off with a loud POP! that seemed to startle him.

For a moment, I was worried that he'd freak out again. But he just stood there staring down at his tiny little genitals, as if he wasn't sure what to do about them. He quickly poked his tightly circumcised little penis once, then pulled his hand back.

"Ow-wee!" He said seriously.

"Does it hurt?" I asked, and he nodded. "Then don't do that anymore," I suggested with a smile.

"Uhhhhh," he nodded seriously.

"Ready?" I pointed at the tub.
He didn't need to be told twice. He jumped in with a great splash, making a mess, of course. I couldn't be angry with him, though. If he liked baths, I certainly wasn't going to discourage it. I wondered how he'd react to the swimming pool out back that I seldom used?

You weren't in that tub for five minutes, boy! Come over here so I can smell your hair!

He even let me wash his thick hair. That took a while, as there was so much of it. I figured a haircut would be our next obstacle. When he finally started shriveling, I coaxed him out of the tub. It wasn't easy; he wanted to stay, but the water was cooling.

I wrapped the shivering boy in a large towel, carefully patting him dry. "Ow-weee!" he yelped, when I touched his scrawny little bum cheeks.

His tattooed barcode was red and warm to the touch, the beginnings of infection, and just a bit puffy. I carefully explained and showed him my good tube of healing gel, and I let him dab it on himself. He seemed happy with that, but I was worried about the stupid law that said I'd have to pay someone to tattoo the word "SLAVE" across his chest.

Wasn't he marked up enough already? The lighter areas of skin all over his backside were enough for me to know that he'd probably not react well to that. 'Old wounds,' I thought, and ones that hadn't been very well cared for. From what I understood, a scarred slaveboy didn't appeal to potential buyers. I began to wonder if they hadn't really wanted to sell Zero to begin with? Or was it because they were simply too cheap to invest in good healing gels?

"Hungry?" I asked, deciding to leave him naked until I found some clothes for him. Of course, the manual suggested the only attire a slaveboy needed was his gear – collar and cuffs and belt – but I had no intention of parading Zero around in public for everyone to see. Humiliation was the last thing he needed right now while I was trying to get him settled.

"Uncle?" He said again, and I started. He was standing there, the long bath having shriveled his genitals up so that they'd almost disappeared into his body, holding up his belt and collar.

"Eat first-OK?" I asked, nodding.

Zero dropped the gear and smiled at me, holding out his arms. It made his ribs show, and I swallowed a lump in my throat. It was apparent that starving him seemed to have been one of their favorite punishments while attempting to train him. I picked him up, carefully, adjusting him so that he'd not feel my pounding erection and get scared all over again.

Damn, it was still unnerving! I was hard and excited the whole time I'd been bathing him, but it still seemed like I'd be fucking my Nephew or young Cory next door. It didn't seem right, but my cock obviously thought otherwise.

That aside, I had to convince him that I had to cook our breakfast first. I knew that the manual suggested teaching a slaveboy to cook, and making him wait until you – his Master – had eaten first. THAT wasn't gonna work, hell no! Zero had already grabbed a slice of raw bacon and fled under the table with it!

I shook my head. "You can't eat it raw, Zero, you'll get worms!" How often had my grandparents told me that?! "Uncle has to cook it first."

He crawled out from under the table, but the bacon was long gone. He looked at the stove, an antique that I much preferred to nuking food. I liked real food, not prepared and processed junk full of chemicals and additives. I could only imagine what was in those 'slave loaves' that the manual suggested as the main dietary staple. The illustration certainly didn't look appealing, and I'd already decided that Zero was done eating that garbage.
He reached out a hand.
"No-no, hot," I told him, as if he were a toddler.

He froze.

"Ow-weee?" He asked, cocking his head.

"Ow-weee," I agreed. "Burn you. Hurt."

"No," Zero shook his head, backing up.

It was a new word for him, or at least, one he hadn't said yet.

Then he went back and sat under the table.

"Zero, in this house, we eat at the table. Please sit in the chair like a big boy," I told him.

"No!"

I had a feeling that was going to be our next problem. When a child learned the meaning of 'no', he liked to use it!

"Yes," I argued, starting scrambled eggs.

Zero eyed the chair like he didn't trust it, but he finally pulled it out and sat, trembling and watching me.

"Good boy, Zero!" I encouraged him, which got me another bright smile.

The phone rang, startling me, and I dropped the spatula. "Dammit!" I snapped.

"Dam-m-mitt!" Zero echoed, another new word.

I laughed.

"What's so funny?" Marvin's voice asked from the phone.
"I bought a little slaveboy last night, Marv," I informed him.
"Oh?!" Marvin sounded interested, "Tell me all about him!"
"Later, my eggs are burning!" I snapped, hanging up.

A fork was the next adventure. Zero poked himself with it, said "Ow-wee" again, and dropped it on the floor. He then began eating with his hands, wolfing his food as he'd done the night before. I found an old cup with a lid in the cupboard, so he'd not spill his milk. Organic, expensive!

A dozen eggs, a pound [c. 500 g] of bacon, four slices of toast, and about half a gallon [2 l] of milk later, and I realized that we were going to have to go grocery shopping! Where was the boy putting it all?! Granted, a lot of it was all over his face and front. It was so cute that I took a picture of him, which he seemed to like.

Note to self – letting Zero wash dishes wasn't a good idea. If you've ever seen a happy duck splashing around in a puddle, that was Zero's idea of doing dishes. They were clean, though, and so was he when he finished. After cleaning up his cleanup, so were the counter, the floor, and the doors of the cupboards.

I hate dishes! Can't we just use paper plates, Uncle?

His tummy was tight as a drum when we were finished, sticking out like he'd swallowed a small ball. I wondered what to do with him, since I needed to call Marvin back. I figured that the television would make a good babysitter, but first, I took him to the bathroom again and made him sit there until he peed. After all, I figured his little penis was probably too small to aim standing up! He seemed quite pleased with himself when he went.

"I have to call Marvin," I told him, "So you sit in here and watch TV until Uncle's done, OK?"

He looked confused, then went and got my phone off the table. He then tapped in ten digits, and handed me the phone with that blank look on his face again.

"Hello?" Marvin answered.

Marvin? How the hell did Zero know how to call Marvin? Then I realized it – he'd seen me dial the numbers when I'd bought him the night before! The kid must have had a thing for numbers – a numerical savant, perhaps? THAT was exciting! Then again, it could have been just a fluke, I told myself.

"Zero, sit," I told the boy, and turned on the cartoon channel. Zero situated himself in a recliner and eyed the screen like he didn't trust it. Then he got up and moved closer. I remembered he was nearsighted, and that he couldn't see the TV from back there.

"That your new boy?" Marvin asked. "Funny name?"

"Funny kid," I told him, launching into the whole story as Zero watched cartoons. It was Saturday Morning Classics , and he liked the one with the cat and mouse – where the mouse always got the best of the cat. I had a feeling that I was going to be the cat in the days to come 3;

"You bought a defective?" Marvin laughed, "You've got more money than that!" He scoffed. "He's thirteen, and brain-damaged?"

"Twelve or thirteen, not sure. I don't know, they didn't test him," I replied. "He was a throw-away kid, and I just couldn't let them do that to him. You should see him, Marv, he's so cute." I sent him the picture.

"He's a mess!" Marvin laughed, "You staged that, didn't you? So how much did he cost?"

"100k," I replied. Marvin was quiet for a bit. "You got took! What are you going to do with him, come Monday, though? You got a cage?"

"I most certainly do not!" I snapped at him, which got Zero's attention at once. He got up and came to sit on the floor, hugging my leg.

"We keep our boy in a cage when he's not training or working," Marvin informed me, "It's not like we're raising another child. Remember, he's your slave, not your son!"

They locked us in at night, Uncle! Some of the boys cried, too. I tried not to.

"Marv, he's not a normal boy," I reminded him, "I think he might be about three or four years old, mentally, even if he is almost thirteen."

"Kinda old, isn't he?"

"He's very small, dwarfism, I think, or maybe a midget?" I told him, "And they've had him on Luprox for a while, six months worth of it still in his system. There's no signs of puberty yet. He looks more like he's nine or ten, if that. He's only about 4½ feet [1.35 m] tall, maybe."

"Wow! You bought a retarded midget?" Marv snickered, and I was not amused, "What else is wrong with him?"

"A lot," I answered in disgust, "I'm talking to Dr. Sebastian Collins tomorrow. For now, I have to find him some clothes and get him some gear of his own, not to mention groceries."

"Just get him a box of slave loaves," Marv suggested, "That's what our boy gets. It's cheaper than real food, and it's nutritionally balanced. Three a day, all he needs, and CLOTHES? You don't dress a slave! He's not a doll!"

"That isn't food," I said, "I wouldn't feed that to a dog! And I will not parade him around naked in public for everyone to stare at!"

"You spoil him, and he won't be a good slave," Marv warned me. "He has to know his place, and it's up to you to teach him that."

I looked down. Those pleading little brown eyes were staring back up at me. There was a bit of egg in the boy's hair that we'd missed, and my leg was falling asleep, Zero had such a grip on it. I could see one hard little bicep standing out.

"I already know his place," I replied, "Gotta go, we've got a lot to do today."

"Good luck with that!" Marv laughed, hanging up.

"Asshole," I muttered.

"At-oh," Zero repeated, or tried to.

"Zero, do you like riding in the car?" I asked him. Zero shook his head. "How about grocery stores? Do you know what that is?"

THAT got his attention at once. He nodded, got up, then froze. He looked down at himself.

"No."

"No? What?" I asked. I followed him to the bathroom, where Zero picked up his chastity belt and collar again.

"You want to wear that?" I had to ask.

"No."

The best I could figure was that he didn't want to go out naked, and I didn't blame him. A weather front was moving in, I could see out the window, and it looked cooler outside. But that probably wasn't it. The humiliation of being presented to crowds of strange men the night before, chained, naked and embarrassed, had probably taken its toll on him. I wasn't going to put him through any more of that, Marv or the manual notwithstanding.

"Uncle knows what to do," I told him. I put some more gel on his barcode tattoo, covered it with a bit of gauze, and got him a clean Goodnights – just in case. Zero seemed OK with that, but I wasn't taking a boy of his age out in just a diaper. Not that it would have humiliated him; it was ME I was worried about! I thought I'd just die 3;

OK, Nephew wasn't the only packrat. I still had a lot of his things, and one of them was his old Scout uniform. It took some doing, but I finally got Zero into a pair of drab green loose shorts that came halfway down to his knees, a plain tan T-shirt, and a pair of black hiking sandals that I found in the bottom of Nephew's closet. He just stood there like a zombie while I was dressing him, and I was worried he'd have a meltdown. Zero scratched and squirmed a lot, but I figured he'd not worn clothes in a while. But when he saw himself in the mirror, he smiled again.

"Zeee-whoa," he nodded.

Even dressed and without slave gear on, he still looked like an orphan-child, though! God, he was so cute, in a raggedy sort of way. Shaggy hair, bandage on his knee, and that confused look on his face again. I held out my arms, and he came right to me. I kissed his crooked little nose, and he giggled. I took another picture of him, dressed. Zero seemed to like the camera, so I figured I'd better print the two I had already when we got back. I grabbed an old red nylon jacket and matching trousers for him, just in case.

I wanna keep this, Uncle, so I can remember my first summer Scout camp.

I saw that Zero was walking funny on the way out to the car, looking all around. It had been dark when I'd brought him home, and he hadn't seen the yard, the trees, or anything else. He carefully put one sandaled foot on the rocky drive, the rocks crunched under the sole, and Zero smirked. "HA!" He exclaimed. I had to laugh.

But when the auto-belt in the front seat got him again, he struggled. "Ow-wee," he kept saying. Then he pointed at his mouth.

"Do you get carsick?" I asked. Lord, what else with this kid?!

"Uncle," he replied, which I took as a 'yes'.

I went and got him a plastic bag. "If you're going to puke, puke in that," I told him. I drove slow and avoided curvy roads, too. Still, Zero was a bit green when we arrived at the supermarket. A clear diet soda (fizzy drink) settled him down soon enough, and he burped – loudly. That made him laugh. Just watching him got me aroused again, and I shifted my cock around, trying to hide it. I also tried not to think about how much I wanted to do more than just hug or kiss him – but that poor little Zero was probably still a long, long way from that sort of thing.

Why are grocery stores always so cold? Zero walked in with me, gripping my hand with that vice-like squeeze of his, and started to shiver. We went back out and got the red windsuit. One thing Zero was too big for was riding in the cart, but we didn't get that far. He took one look at all the crowded store, looked up like a cornered animal when the announcer called a special on the intercom, and panicked.

"NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!" He kept repeating, clutching at my leg and crying and going into a full-scale meltdown.

Fortunately, as I was dying of embarrassment, no one seemed to pay much attention to children having a tantrum in the grocery store. I suppose it was commonplace?

Uncle, I WANT cookies! I want cookies NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW!

"Stop that!" I snapped at Zero, giving his padded little bum a smart slap. It couldn't have hurt him through the diaper, but it got his attention at once. "Do you want Uncle to spank your bare bum here in front of everybody?"

"NO!"

"Then be a good boy," I told him flatly, taking his hand again.

"Nohhh," he said, softer this time, in a very tiny voice full of shame.

To make a long story shorter, it was an adventure. It took a while for Zero to adjust to the crowded store, he kept grabbing things that weren't good for him, I'd put those back, he had a few more tantrums, but he seemed to level out when we hit the produce section. I saw my chance and took it, tossing the junk out of the cart when he was busy looking at pineapples and plums and such. If he wanted fruit, I wasn't going to stop him! We got a lot of produce, which he picked out, then headed to the meat case. I figured if I were going to tone up his scrawny little frame, he'd need a lot of protein. And I'd need a lot of CR's!

We hit the pharmacy section next, where I picked up some more soap, healing gel, vitamins, motion sickness pills, and an enema kit. Zero knew what that was, and he pulled a face and shook his head, puckering up and squeezing his eyes shut while bending over. "No!" he whined, but it wasn't a tantrum.
It also wasn't a protest over the enema kit.

I smelled something.

"You didn't?" I gasped.

"Uncle," Zero whimpered, his face turning pink. Zero had had an accident.

A big one, judging from the smell.

I realized I should have plugged his little butt before we'd left, but at least he was wearing a diaper. That must have been why the manual said to give a slaveboy his enema in the morning, and replug him at once. I grabbed a box of baby wipes and we headed for the restroom to clean up. Can you say 'nuclear waste'? Too late! Dinner had apparently made the trip through Zero's empty system, and it wasn't pretty.

Once Zero was clean again, we took our loaded cart to the checkout. Zero didn't ask for anything, but he was standing there looking scared to death and pointing at something.

At the head of the line were two men, and a boy of about fourteen was bagging their groceries. He was bald, collared and cuffed with 12" [30 cm] wrist and ankle chains, and naked. Well, he was dressed in what looked like a clear plastic windsuit and chastity device, and the word SLAVE was tattooed across his chest in big black block letters. He had a red ball gag in his mouth, and his wrist chain clinked on the cart as he sacked up the order.

Zero crushed my hand again. He was shaking all over, and I imagined his new diaper was probably wet, too. He was squinting, but I had no doubt he could see the slaveboy ahead of us. He turned around, hid his face in my front, and cried.

"Thanks for that!" The checkout lady told the two men, "You'd not believe how many naked slaves we get in here."

Really?! Now how many half-naked and filthy free kids had I seen running around in the store? And you had to put a slaveboy in what amounted to a body-fitting freezer bag? Compared to some of the free urchins, Zero was in formalwear! It was disgusting.

I got a surprise, though, when our order was totaled. Zero tugged at my sleeve, and held up his hand as if signing to someone deaf. He flashed three fingers, one, four, five, and two.

"That's a total of 314.52/CR," the checkout lady said. I blinked. She smiled at Zero. "You must be a hungry boy!"

Zero blushed, grinned at her, and hid behind me. I guess he wasn't afraid of pretty young ladies? She payment-scanned my ID, and Zero started bagging our haul. I just watched, stunned. He sorted the produce, HBA products (soap, etc.), then bread, meat – all by separate bags. "UNCLE!" He said proudly, when he was done.

"How did he know the total?" A older man in line behind us asked.

"He's 3;he's a savant," I fumbled.

"I see! How interesting!" He replied, "What's his name?"

"Zee-whoa," Zero said, standing on the front of the shopping cart and grinning shyly.

"I see!" Our urbane observer raised his eyebrows.

In the car, Zero got a Dramemax pill for motion sickness and a bottle of water. He seemed happy about that, and just sat there with his barf bag as we drove back home. I was so glad he didn't vomit.

We put the groceries away, and I was surprised to see just how bare my cupboards really were. We had enough food to feed a small army of slaveboys! That thought got me aroused again, until I heard "Uh-oh!" and a PHIZZZZZZZZZZH sound.

Zero was standing there with whipped cream all over his face! No more aerosol cans!

"We eat that after lunch," I corrected him, and on a wicked impulse, began kissing the whipped cream off of his cute face. He squealed and giggled, but he let me do it. Then he ate two meat and cheese sandwiches, an apple, a plum, a small bag of corn chips, two litres of chocolate milk, and a vanilla pudding cup.

I was afraid to imagine what was going to come out of him later, and I decided that he was getting a bedtime enema that night, like it or not! I also took no chances, and undressed him to put his butt plug back in. I explained to him that he was bad in the supermarket, and that bad boys shit their pants sometimes when have a meltdown. I hoped he understood that I wasn't really plugging him as punishment, but when his tiny little penis twitched in response to the plug seating, I almost made a mess in my shorts! If Zero didn't like being plugged, you couldn't tell from the look on his face. Then again, he could have just been trained to accept it for fear of a beating. It was, however, the first sign of life that I'd seen from his cute little cock. I put some gel on his circumcision and vasectomy scars, his tattoo, then diapered him again.

I put him down for a nap, leaving him diapered, except for one cuff on his left ankle to hold him to the bed. He'd just had a heavy meal after a big adventure, and he didn't make a fuss. He whined a bit, but it didn't take him long to fall asleep. I was glad he did. I needed the rest!

While all of Nephew's musty old clothes and sheets were washing, I went back to reading the owner's manual while Zero napped. After a meal, light exercise is best. Sitting around or sleeping at this time will lead to weight gain. A good slave should have at least four hours of exercise per day, when not doing his chores.

Whoops! Oh, well. The boy needed to gain weight. And he'd just had a good walk in the supermarket, and carried those heavy sacks in. I decided to walk him more that afternoon, as we needed to take the Clearing House's gear for trade-in and get him some of his own.

It wasn't that I wanted to treat him like a slave. I just couldn't see myself doing that. But I'd noticed that he rubbed at his neck and wrists a great deal, and he fidgeted a lot. I also didn't want him playing with himself, as I didn't trust those fresh pink scars. I had to wonder what had gone through that mysterious brain of his, too, when he'd seen that slaveboy in the store.

And how did he calculate the cost of produce by weight vs. cost and add it all up in his head?!

I was still pondering that one when I woke him two hours later. Nephew was always cranky after a nap, and so was Zero. It might have been cute, him telling me 'no' at this point in time, but I knew I was going to have to break him of it somehow. But since he'd said so few words, and not often, I didn't want to discourage any talking. That, and he'd responded to two new people at the supermarket. I was hopeful.

Big boys don't take naps, Uncle!

That weather front had moved in by the time I was ready to return the loaned slave gear. I'd read online that the store I'd chosen would handle that for me, sending it back in when I purchased new items. I was afraid of how Zero might react, being taken to a 'slave shop', but I had no choice. I could imagine what that charlatan at the Clearing House would bill me if I didn't. I dressed Zero in the red nylon windsuit trousers, an old pair of white leather mid-high sneakers (trainers) that were not too beaten, and a red hoodie. He was adorable.

When we walked into "Daddy's-Boy Slave-Wear Shoppe", Zero's eyes bugged out and he grabbed my hand again. There were customers (with boys of varying ages) browsing the store; the slaves were dressed only in gear. If I'd felt out of place at the auction, I certainly felt out of place there. I had no idea what some of the hardware was, and I wasn't sure I wanted to know as I nervously approached the counter with Zero in tow.

"Can I help you?" The rather burly, bearish clerk greeted me. He was dressed in leather, of course, and it was cold enough to hang a side of beef in the place.

"Yes, I 3;erm 3;need to trade these in," I held up the bag, "You see, I bought a boy last night, and 3;" I fumbled, but he interrupted.

"Ahhhh, a first-timer! Yes!" He beamed, "Of course, we'll handle that for you, sir! Now, where's the little devil at, so we can scan his barcode and get his reference number?"

I pointed at Zero.

"HE'S DRESSED!?" The shocked clerk exclaimed.

"To save time, I know you're busy, and it's cool out!" I defended Zero, who looked like any other free boy.

"Very considerate!" He changed track at once, "Now, shall we have a model pick out the boy's new gear, or shall the slave do it himself?"

"Zero will pick his own gear," I decided.

"Fine, strip him," the clerk suggested, holding up a scanner.

I assured Zero it was OK, and that the big man wasn't going to hurt him. He wasn't cooperating, until I told him that he could have anything in the store he wanted. "Uncle?" He asked, squinting around, as I unsnapped the legs of his breakaway trousers.

"He has accidents," I offered lamely, as I slid his Goodnights off and pulled his plug. Zero yelped, as the clerk handed me a zip-lock bag for it.

The clerk scanned Zero's bum tattoo, and raised an eyebrow. "I see," was all he said. The scanner must have pulled up Zero's slave dossier, but the clerk's face softened. God, I didn't want to be there and putting Zero through this, but the law was the law. He then suggested a tattoo artist for Zero's required chest marking, but when his own boy stepped out from behind the counter to assist, I thought, "Oh, hell no!"

The boy was probably sixteen, black (where he wasn't covered in brightly colored ink), reedy but toned, bald, and wearing shiny brass-finished gear. Even his teeth were capped as he smiled, and his genitals were hidden away behind a too-small brass pod. "Hello, sir. I'll be helping your slave today," he greeted us in a childish voice. Zero just looked him over, shivering.

"Boy, this is a first time customer," the clerk, (his Master?) informed him, "Help the little fellow dress properly!"

"SIR!" The slave snapped to, bending down to Zero's level. "Hi there! Can I help you pick out some toys?"

OK, another long story: Zero seemed to accept 'Boy', and it was a good thing he wasn't buying a car! He checked out all the other slaveboys in the place, but he totally ignored their Masters. Zero picked out his own stuff, all right – the most expensive! When he was done, he had a velour-lined, thick gold collar with matching cuffs, chastity belt, and gold-toned 12" [30 cm] chains. 'Boy' suggested a small, plain latex plug – the cheapest thing in the lot. It was somewhat larger than Zero's old one, and I hoped he could take it OK.

Zero didn't say a thing – until Boy noted that he needed a gag.

"NO!" Zero yelled, which got the attention of the whole store.

I could have died, were it not for the looks of disgust some of the patrons were giving us. "Homely little thing," Someone muttered.

"He's autistic," I explained. The clerk seemed to understand, but there were some murmurings from the other shoppers. One even left the store. Zero ran to me and started crying again. I picked him up, held him, and let him. His skin was cold already, and he was shaking badly. "He's gonna melt down," I warned them.

"Fitting room," the clerk suggested nervously; we fled. Boy followed us with Zero's 'toys'. It took a half hour to calm him and clean up when Zero wet himself again. I was beginning to see the pattern – he had accidents about halfway through his tantrums.

"It's OK, buddy," Boy kept telling him, "You gonna look pretty in gold!"

"Uh-huhhh," Zero whimpered. "Uncle?"

Once he calmed down, it didn't take long to get Zero 'dressed' – but I had to do it. The contrast of the gold against his bronze skin was so damn erotic that my hand was shaking and Boy had to take the pictures I wanted. Boy looked uncomfortable, too. He was probably trying to get hard in his snug pod, and couldn't!

Zero tapped the gold metal plate shielding his tiny genitals, and smiled. "No-oweee," he declared. I decided the plug could wait until we were home, since Boy was busy using some kind of tonic to try and tame Zero's hair. I was amazed Zero let him, and when Boy was done, Zero's thick hair was shining, looked lighter, and was slicked back to reveal his forehead. There was a tiny white scar there, not a centimeter long, to the left.

When Zero came out, our host was shocked. He scanned each item, once Boy put Zero up on the counter, and Zero's hands began moving: Five, nine, six, four, one, eight. 5,964.18/CR. I felt faint.

"Amazing!" The clerk commented, as Zero then grabbed a 10" [25 cm] chocolate sucker in the shape of a penis! He sniffed it, and tore the wrapper off. That was another 20/CR! He stuck it in his mouth, gagged once, then started working the candy like a professional little cocksucker! I had to sit down. That got everyone's attention, too.

"How old is he, eight?" Someone asked.

I was dying here. When I looked up, it was that urbane gentleman from the supermarket. "He's cute, in a scruffy way!" He complimented us.

"Thanks, I think," I managed. "You saw?"

He nodded. "Twice today. I think you have a very special little boy there, Mister, ahhh?"

"Smith," I lied quickly, face flaming. "And he's thirteen, and short."

"I see! If you'll excuse me?" He then paid for his purchase, a taser, and left.

Zero bit the penis-lollipop's head off. "Mmmmm!" He grinned. Everyone laughed. All the men flinched.

"Just what you needed - sugar!" I complained, as I had to ask for Zero's clothes back, lying that the boy next door had loaned them. Zero had chocolate all over his face.

Then he offered Boy the sucker, who declined.

"Awwwww?" Zero whined.

"Can you say 'goodbye'?" I prompted him.

"No."

"Then just wave," I told him, scooping him up to carry him. "Let's go home, Zero!"

Chapter 3
Sick Kids & "Sick" Kids

"Sir, there's some assembly required."

That's the line that no one wants to see on a new purchase! I pay assembly fees. I fought with Nephew's first bicycle for hours, and that was when he discovered that Santa Claus says a lot of bad words! I want it off the shelf, ready to use, in frustration-free packaging, spank you very much! I mean 'thank you'.

Such was the case with Zero, though. My new little slaveboy was definitely falling into the category of 'some assembly required'.

I knew we'd get there someday, but it was all I could do to drive home with Zero sitting there in the passenger seat in his new gold-finish slave gear. Hell, it was even erotic to see the automated "attack seatbelt" strap him in when he closed the door. The padded straps went over his chest and waist, securing him to the power seat that he always had to fiddle with like it was a toy. It was a sight to see, yes, but what cooled my desire was thinking about how some of those customers at the slave gear store had looked at him.

I'd only had Zero 'out on the town' for one day, and I was rapidly getting sick of the murmured insults and disgusted looks. OK, I've seen some homely little kids in my day, and maybe I was biased, but I thought Zero was cute. In a scruffy, raggedy sort of way, that is. Granted, his hair was a disaster, his pert little nose was crooked, he couldn't see a metre [~3'] in front of him, his skin was a unique bronze color that didn't really compliment his hair, and he was skinny as a rail. Add to that the fact that he couldn't really talk, peed his diapers, got carsick, and was prone to meltdowns.

Fine. I'll say it – he was a bit funny looking. There. But he was certainly no "Ugly Little Boy" from the classic sci-fi story. He wasn't a Neanderthal!

Yes, there was some assembly required for poor little Zero – but damned if I was going to give up on him. It had only been a day, and my feelings weren't the issue. His were. I could not rush him; no, that would be far too damaging. I'd just have to take a cold shower, or something.

But he had his good points, too. He loved to get a bath. He liked to play in the sink, which he must have thought was 'doing dishes'. He ate whatever you put in front of him with no protests, table manners notwithstanding! He sat quietly, he was a camera ham, and he went to bed with no arguing and slept through the night. He also didn't mind the diapers, and he seemed to have a talent for shopping. Him spending ~5k/CR just now was proof of that!

But Uncle, I don't wanna wear diapers! It's so embarrassing! I'll wash my sheets every day, I promise! Please don't make me wear them to bed!

And what he'd done with the chocolate lollipop?! Holy cow! Who'd have thought the kid would have deep-throated it?! Then again, it was candy and boys like candy. I just hoped that when we got him along a little further, in the areas that most men buy a slaveboy for, that he didn't bite me like he had that lollipop!

I must have swerved a bit while driving home, looking at Zero, because we got pulled over by a cop. I figured 'this is it, Zero's gonna have a meltdown when he sees a stranger'. But I was wrong. The cop came swaggering up to the car with the usual "license and registration please" line. He scanned it, then he saw Zero.

Zero was staring back at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open with chocolate all over his face and hands – and all over the seat and door panel. He'd reached the point of the lollipop to where it looked like a set of brown, detached testicles on a stick with about a centimeter [~ ½"] of shaft. The cop made a funny, strangled sound and stared. I knew I should have put Nephew's clothes back on Zero for the ride home. I knew I should have said 'no' to the lollipop. (We'll get to that later. BOY, should I ever have said NO!)

"I just bought this new slaveboy, Officer, and he's a bit 3;"

"Uncle!" Zero said loudly, pointing at the cop.

'This is it, I'm going to jail,' I thought, 'If he insults Zero too, I'll kill him!'

"Procedure requires that I see his slave barcode and scan it, since there's no tattoo on his chest," Dudley Dooright informed us. I tried to explain that Zero was autistic, and he might have a meltdown. "I think his sucker already had one," the cop replied with a grin. "You know, he'd be really cute with a haircut. Was his nose broken when you bought him?"

What?! No reaction from Zero?

"Hi, buddy! I'm Officer Clemens. I have to see your slave tattoo, OK? It's the law. Can we get you out of your seatbelt so I can scan it?" He asked Zero.

"No," Zero told him flatly. Then he held out the remains of his "scrotal lollipop". I could have died 3;yep, Zero was going to jail, resisting arrest 3;

"My neighbor has a slaveboy, too, and I have to make sure you're not a kidnapped free boy," Clemens then surprised us, "And he lets me see his tattoo whenever I want. I'll show you mine if you show me yours?"

Zero thought about it, then he undid his seatbelt. Officer Clemens went around to the passenger side to open the door, and amazingly, Zero let him pick him up! "Don't you ever feed this poor kid?" He asked, as he carefully peeled back the gauze and scanned Zero's bum. The scanner beeped. "Oh, I see," he said softly. Zero grinned at him and grabbed his badge. "Still healing, right. Sorry, sir."

"You have no idea how he can eat, Officer!" I mumbled. Any time now, and Hurricane Zero was going to blow 3;but he didn't? What? Zero wasn't afraid of uniforms? Was that it, the uniform? Something he'd learned in his free life, maybe?

"May I, sir?" Clemens asked, holding Zero by his cuffed wrist. I nodded. What did he want to do to Zero? Then he sucked some of the melted chocolate off of Zero's fingers! I almost came in my shorts, right there! Zero laughed. He actually laughed!

"Seems he's all legal," Clemens added, showing me the scanner report.

"He's never let an adult stranger do anything like that before. He usually ignores adults," I offered lamely. "I think he was badly abused before I got him."

"I can't stand for that," Clemens agreed, as he put Zero back in the seat and rolled up his sleeve. He had a tattoo of, let's say, something you'd find on an ancient Greek vase. Let's leave it at that, OK?

"Ooooo!" Zero cooed, touching it. Instant chocolate-covered cop!

Once buckled back in, Clemens patted Zero's head. The hair tonic had failed by then. "I'd say he's learned to respect a uniform at some time," he theorized, "And doesn't like crowds. Most kids like him don't. Is he local, or was he imported from one of the military States overseas? I see he's mixed? Not too many mixed race slaves around these parts? Everyone seems to want perfect little blond boys." He thought for a moment. I was afraid to talk. "He could be from the eastern end of the African Union, got some Asian in him, I think." He mused, "But more African, too." Zero started licking chocolate off his own fingers. Clemens licked his badge. I could have died! Waste not, want not 3;

"No idea, there's no data on him," I shook my head, "It's like he didn't exist before the Clearing House acquired him from the State. His parents died, his Grandpa had him, then he died. No one 3;no one else wanted him," I added softly, finding that I felt like I was on the verge of tears suddenly.

"I'll look into it. I'd love to bust that place," Clemens offered, wiping at the chocolate on the front of his neat uniform. "Maybe I'll see you both later? I think I should come by and make sure he's being fed properly, now that I know where he lives!" He laughed. Then he licked Zero's lollipop! Oh hell 3;I was gonna die!

Zero just grinned at him and went back to his lollipop, bobbling his head happily.

"That means 'yes', I think, since he can't talk – much," I translated.

"Bye-bye!" Clemens waved at Zero. Zero waved back. I was amazed.

"You did very, very good, Zero," I told him, my heart racing and my cock throbbing. Yes, cold shower time – but no ticket! "You were very nice to that policeman."

"Uncle!" Zero smiled, offering me his other chocolate-covered hand. I accepted, of course. Do you have any idea how erotic THAT was?!

When we got home, I carried Zero in since he was barefooted. The gear made him much heavier, and I figured I'd have to adjust it for his weight. The manual said his gear should weigh 1/3 of his body weight, so we went looking for a scale. Right after I washed him off in the sink, that is! That was when I realized that the lollipop, which he'd just finished, had probably ruined his dinner.

"Hungry?" I asked, as it was near dinnertime.

"No."

That had to be a first! "Figures," I mumbled, leading him to the bathroom. I wasn't sure how full his tummy was, but it had been a while since his monstrous lunch. The manual said not to give an enema on a full stomach, so that must have been why morning ones were preferred. However, I didn't want him waking up in the middle of the night with a tummy ache, either. I wasn't sure what to do, and I wasn't about to call Marvin.

I put Zero in front of the mirror that hung on the back of the bathroom door, and he gasped. He just stared at the deeply bronzed boy trimmed all in gold, and touched him. The boy touched him back. He laughed. "Zee-whoa!" He said, looking proud and tapping his chest. I just nodded. I didn't trust my voice just then. To think, they were going to throw this boy away like so much garbage.

I just want you to be proud of me, Uncle! I'll bring that bad grade up, I promise I will!

"You like your new gear?" I managed. He nodded so hard his collar bumped his chin. He liked it? "Do you want to leave it on, all the time? The book says slaveboys have to wear their gear all the time, even when they go to bed."

He had to think about that for a moment. He looked back in the mirror, held out his chained hands, and pulled them apart. The chain went taunt. He bent over and inspected his ankle chain, feeling his padded cuffs and trying to pull them off. Then he played with his collar for a little while.

"Too heavy? Too tight?" He shook his head and raised his hands, then his feet, up and down. "I need to weigh them, Zero. I know you didn't weigh much last night when I got you, so we'll weigh you now and do the math, OK?"

He got right on the scale, and I made a note. I went to get his file and compare, and sure enough, he was about 15 pounds [7 kg] too heavy. Did the poor kid even weigh 50 lbs. [23 kg] when I'd gotten him? He was so thin 3;

But all that added weight of his gear was sure to start building him up fast, and I started worrying that it would wear him out or hurt him.

That backpack is too heavy, boy! You can't carry that thing up a mountain!

I decided that it was time to get to the point.

"Zero, we need to put your new plug in," I told him, "That's another thing slaveboys are supposed to have – a plug in their butt all the time, unless they're on the potty or 3; or 3;" I paused. He cocked his head at me. Good grief? Surely they'd trained him? Surely he knew what slaveboys do for their masters?

He was looking at the plug, and took it from me. He weighed it in his hands, looked it over closely, then just stared back at me with those pleading brown eyes of his. His face was a mystery. I thought about his reaction to the gag at the slave store, and how I'd thrown his original down and left it. I so needed Zero to talk to me, to tell me what he thought!

And he couldn't.

I know, I know, he was a slaveboy, and it wasn't supposed to matter what he thought. I was the master, he was the slave, and what I said went. The silly book even said so. So did Marv, for that matter.

"No-oweee," Zero pointed at his butt. Then he pointed to the toilet. He put the plug down and found the box of baby wipes. "No," he repeated, dropping it.

Was he trying to tell me he wanted the plug, so he couldn't mess himself? I know he'd been so very ashamed of himself in the supermarket when he'd had his accident. There was only one way to find out, really.

"Zero, you know Uncle bought you an enema kit? Did they give you an enema when you went to live with the other slaveboys at the Clearing House?" I asked, but his face was blank. I don't think he understood the question. It also made me wonder if Zero even understood all of what I'd been saying.

How much of spoken language meant anything to him? Was he that badly off?

I opened up the kit and held up the tiny white nozzle and white hose, pointing at the red bag.

I got my answer then, and fast.

Zero's face paled, and he started that high, keening wail again. He sat right down, and started to rock, clutching his knees to his chin and somehow managing to sob without sound. I knew he was going to wet himself, and that a meltdown was coming.

"No, Zero, Uncle won't hurt you," I tried to tell him, but he was having none of that.

"NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! OWWWWW-WEEEEE!" He cried.

The auctioneer must have been right – Zero didn't like pain. I looked at the hose. Then it came to me – did they give him punishment enemas, high volume soapy ones that hurt him, while they were training him? HAD they even trained him, or just given up on him?

"No, no hose. No ow-wee," I tried to reassure him; I kept repeating it.

"No?" He finally looked up at me with that heartbreaking little expression.

Can't I just take a pill? Uncle, no! I don't wanna enema! I promise I won't eat cheese never again! Don't stick that hose up my butt!

"How about you and Uncle take a bath instead? No ow-wee's, no big enema?" I asked him softly, "Maybe a little one, so you'll be clean for your pretty new plug?" I tried that track.

Zero jumped up and turned on the taps. Meltdown avoided! I took his gear off, telling him it was too pretty to get it wet. Hell, for what it cost, I didn't want it wet! I wasn't sure how he was going to react, but I went ahead and stripped him of his gear, then I began to undress. I saw that he was carefully dripping soap into the water stream, watching the suds forming, and calculating.

He was learning!

Uh-oh, I think I put in too much, Uncle!

When he was satisfied, Zero jumped in the tub, laughing and splashing. I slowly dropped my trousers, took off my shorts, and knelt down to watch him. I was hard as a rock and trembling, but there was no way I was going to initiate anything. Not at this stage. It wasn't that I didn't want to, but I couldn't do that to him.

Zero splashed me, then scooted back to the far end of the tub and held out his arms. I took it as an invitation and got in.

OK, I'm not all that well endowed. Zero's lollipop was bigger, all right? I'm statistically average, and let's leave it at that! You couldn't see anything with all the suds, anyway. In short, we got a bath together. Things were going well until Zero hugged me and felt my erection under the suds, though.

He froze. His face went blank.

"No, Zero, no oww-wee," I told him. "Just bath."

"Uncle," he murmured, as if he didn't believe me. There I was, naked in the tub with my adorable little slaveboy, and I was trying to tell him that – no – he was in no danger of getting fucked. Marv would have had a fit, I'm sure.

"Oh," Zero finally nodded.

Then he reached down and grabbed me!

Visions of that sucker having its head bitten off came to mind, but I was too shocked to react. Zero had me by the balls, almost, both of his little hands wrapped around my shaft!

"Ooooo!" he breathed. Then he pushed some suds aside to get a look at it. "Uncle," He repeated, and the little rascal started jacking me off! Then he stopped and looked at me again, cocking his head. I knew by now it was his way of asking if he was doing something wrong, or that he didn't understand.

I nodded at him.

It could have been a long story, but it isn't. In short, I didn't take long to climax. Those soft, warm, soapy little hands on me did their job in record time, and it was a good thing that it was underwater – or I'd have probably shot Zero in the face! It was also the first time I'd ever cum with a partner under the age of 3;oh, say 3;25? Well, since I was a boy, that is! I must have yelled, because Zero was looking at me like I'd just begun speaking in tongues. Maybe I was?

"Oww-wee, Uncle?"

Did that count as a sentence?

"No, Zero," I gasped, "No, baby, that was perfect. You did very, very good!" I told him, gasping for breath.

He was looking at me again. "No bee-bee!" He declared flatly, "Zee-whoa!"

'Bee-bee'? Baby! Another new word!

"Zero," I nodded in agreement, "Sorry. No, Zero's not a baby." And then he was on me, splashing and laughing and hugging me. I couldn't help but touch him, kiss him. He didn't seem to mind, and he went still at once when I squeezed him tight. I risked touching him down there, and I was amazed that his little penis was totally soft!

He'd never touched himself once, despite being free of the chastity belt.

"No, Uncle. Ow-eee," He reminded me. He didn't want to be touched down there?

I put my hands on his soapy cheeks – cheeks that should have been much fuller, I thought, and looked him in the eye. "Uncle loves you, Zero."

"Wuh-voo," he repeated with the broadest smile I'd seen from him yet. I knew we'd crossed another bridge, so to say, and he hugged me back. Then he started to cry again, clinging to me and mumbling something incomprehensible.

There was no doubt in my mind that he understood what I'd just said, even if he couldn't pronounce it right. He'd said it back. It was heartbreaking.

We sat there until the suds were gone and the water had gone cool. We were both shriveled, all over, but Zero was still holding me. I lifted him out, got some towels, but when I turned back around, he was sitting on the commode.

I won't go into detail. Suffice it to say, his bowels worked on their own, without an enema. He was so proud of himself, too, I could see it on his face. I cleaned him up with the baby wipes, dried him off, then remembered something.

I looked in the cabinet, and sure enough, the small bulb syringe I used to use on Nephew's sinuses was still there. I held it up. Zero must have known what it was. He looked at the discarded enema hose, then back at the syringe. He got the enema kit box out of the trash.

I hate this! [cough] I hate butt-enemas, AND nose enemas, Uncle!

Good grief, could Zero read? If he could read, then maybe he could write! Maybe we could communicate after all!

He pointed at the label where it said '2 quarts' [1.9 l]. Then he looked at the syringe, and to my total shock, bent over to present his scrawny little butt to me! OK, numbers seemed to be his thing, I guess? He must have known 12 oz. [355 ml] was a lot less than 1.9 l? Did he know how to measure, or was it the simple matter of seeing the sizes of bag vs. bulb?

Very carefully, I put some soap on my finger and touched his little hole. He flinched, gasped, but he didn't move as I gently applied slow pressure. Given that he'd been plugged for who-knew-how-long, my finger slid in easily. "No-owee," he said, as I moved my finger around slowly. I pushed a bit further, and found his tiny little prostate. I touched it, and he shivered and gasped. His penis gave a slight twitch, and he groaned.

"OK, Zero?"

He nodded.

His old plug had not been large, but two of my fingers were smaller. I worked them in, massaging his little joy-button until his limp penis began to respond. His penis swelled a bit, but never did get fully hard. I didn't think he had 2 inches [5 cm] total, if even that. He was so adorably small and underdeveloped for thirteen-years-old – if he was thirteen.

Of course I knew what prostate milking was; I'd read about it in the stupid owner's manual. They recommended that a chaste slave be milked at least once a week to prevent nocturnal emissions, and to insure prostate health. Then again, they also recommended using the technique to drain older slaves dry just before sex, so that they could neither ejaculate nor orgasm when being fucked. This would leave them in a state, so the manual claimed, of constant horniness and frustration. They called it "orgasm denial". As for prepubescent slaves, which Zero obviously was, they recommended it to check for signs of discharge and for the master's enjoyment in inducing a dry orgasm as a reward – or torture. I wasn't about to see how many times I could bring Zero off before he started to protest, though. That was just plain wrong, using a source of pleasure to cause suffering: "In the case of a prepubescent, prostatic orgasms can be multiple, and eventually lead to agony after the second or third successful climax."

I don't know how long it took, but my fingers were getting tired when he finally tensed up and started to moan and tremble all over. He jerked forward, as if he were trying to fuck the empty air with his half-flaccid little member, and made a whining sound totally unlike any sound I'd heard him make so far. I reached around and put my left arm across his chest, holding him, tweaking his tiny, dark right nipple. It was clear that it was driving him crazy.

Then he climaxed.

Nothing came out of him, of course. Zero was completely dry, but that didn't stop him from enjoying it. On his last thrust, he screamed and went limp in my left arm. Good grief, I thought I'd killed him!

We were both drip-dried by then, the suds and bathwater were gone, and the towels forgotten on the floor when he finished. I filled the syringe with some warm water, no soap, and kissed his shoulder. "Uncle's going to wash you out now, just a little bit, OK?" He was so wiped out he didn't respond. I thought he might have gone to sleep, but he gave me slight nod. I put the syringe in and squeezed.

Zero groaned and straightened up, and I released him. He couldn't stand up, just knelt, his butt cheeks clenched together, while I watched the clock. I made him wait for two minutes, then he sat on the toilet and released it. I gave him another one, this time a double. The first was a bit brown, but the second came out pretty clean. The third one was clean after four minutes. I wondered if the poor boy was so starved that his body was absorbing everything that it could?

"You ready for your pretty new plug, now?" I asked, rubbing his tummy and marveling at how his boy-package had begun to contract again in the cooling room. He nodded and bent over so I could put some lube on him.

He grunted and whined at first, but once the slightly larger plug was in past its widest point (which wasn't large at all), he stood up and squirmed around as if trying to make it sit where he wanted it. To my surprise, he then grabbed up his chastity belt from the shelf and held it out to me.

Uncle, why does my friend Teddy keep a plug in his butt, if he's not a slaveboy?

"No oww-wee," Zero said again, pointing at his scarred genitals. I put some healing gel on them, carefully, and strapped him into his new gold belt. It also had a strap in the back to secure a butt plug, so that a boy could not take it out. He tapped it with his fist and laughed, then presented me with his delicate wrists for his cuffs. It was so touching when he then bowed his damp head, standing there staring at his bare feet with his new collar in his hand. His wrist chain clinked, but he didn't move. It was as if he were trying to tell me something like, "Put it on me, it's OK. I know that I'm a slave. I know I'm 3;"

He looked so damn cute standing like that, so submissive, as if he were a totally different boy from the one who'd had those meltdowns earlier. The perfect little slaveboy waiting for his new master to take possession of him.

But no, that would have to come later.

"You're my boy," I told him, "Uncle's boy. Uncle's good boy," I assured him, raising his smooth chin with just one of my fingers. "And I'm so proud of you. You were such a good boy today. Did you know?"

Zero shook his head. Then he nodded and grinned, a very small grin, but it was there.

I put his collar around his neck, then took his hands in mine, placing them all together on the collar. I wanted him to feel it when we closed it. He felt the pressure, and the collar went CLICK! as we squeezed it together. I then put the small padlock through the eyelets, and snapped it shut.

"Wuh-voo!" Zero whispered, his eyes filling as he reached out his shackled hands for me. I scooped him up and held him for a long time, rocking him, rubbing his back.

I didn't bother to dress. I just grabbed a bathrobe with my other hand and carried him into the living room. I turned the TV on, but he just yawned and squinted at it, laying his head on my shoulder.

"Little man, you've had a big day," I told him, brushing his hair back so I could kiss his perfect little ear. He giggled softly, and snuggled down against me.

I'd had Zero for a full day.

I guess we both fell asleep in front of the TV, but some hours later, Zero woke me up. I guess he panicked again, waking up in an unfamiliar room in the dark, since the TV had gone to sleep too. When I got a light turned on, he was kneeling on the floor and clutching his tummy, crying and whimpering.

"Oww-wee!" He kept repeating, "Uncle! OWW-WEE!"

Those of you who've sat up all night with a sick kid know what came next – the chocolate lolli-cock from earlier wasn't done with Zero. I won't go into detail, but suffice it to say, Zero got sick. Really sick. Does the word Krakatoa, or Vesuvius, mean anything to you? Can you say 'vomit,' boys and girls? Too late 3;

I cleaned us both up, put Zero on the couch, and went to find the carpet shampoo machine. So there I was, nude, at like four in the morning, cleaning the carpet and trying to tell Zero that it was OK. He was totally ashamed of himself, of course, and just laid there and cried. The poor kid. He must have felt like everything he did was a bad thing. I felt so bad for him, but I didn't know what to do for him.

I finally convinced him to drink a little something to settle his stomach, then carried him up to his bedroom. He was shivering again by then, and I thought the house was chilly, too. I covered him, secured his ankle chain, and kissed him goodnight. I was just about to get up when his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist.

"No," he whined, so I sat back down on the edge of his bed. How many times had I done that in the past, in this room?

Stay here, Uncle, 'til I go to sleep? I'm afraid of the dark. It was near six-thirty when he finally drifted off again, and I decided that we were going to both sleep in that Sunday morning. As I turned off my light, I realized that – all the drama aside – Zero and I had come a long, long way that day.

I was so proud of him.

Zero's unusual Sunday appointment with the doctor wasn't until two in the afternoon. That didn't give us a full night's sleep, but it also avoided the hassle of the fact that his initial visit required that he not eat for eight hours before. That was no problem, as Zero woke up and refused even a late brunch. He just sipped at his ice water and rubbed his tummy while I confirmed his visit on the laptop and nibbled at my toast.

After his successful potty, which we were both proud of, I decided that I'd dress him again for the trip. It was still overcast and raining out, and he was just so damn cute in that red hoodie and black breakaway trousers. The clothes were big enough to hide his slave gear, no chains, and he looked for all the world like any other free boy. I was surprised when he was able to put Nephew's old trainers [sneakers] on by himself.

"Now, Zero," I told him, "We're going to see the doctor today." He tensed up at once and backed off, holding out his hands.

"NO!" He yelled at me, and I could see the panic setting in again.

"Uncle won't let him hurt you, I promise," I said quickly. "He won't hurt you like the other doctors did, OK? I won't let him." I was grasping at straws. Had he even seen the doctors who'd sterilized him? "Uncle just wants him to make sure you're all right. It's just an exam. Do you know what that is? All Dr. Collins is going to do is have you lay down and scan you. He might stick your finger to get one little drop of blood, but it won't hurt more than a bug bite. Is that OK? Please? So Uncle will know you're OK?"

Zero thought about it, then went to the door. He nodded.

For the hour-long ride, Zero just watched the windshield wipers. He didn't speak. He didn't look around. He didn't even move. He was trying to be brave, but I knew he was afraid from the way he was nibbling at his lower lip.

We arrived downtown to find Dr. Sebastian Collins' office near the square, in one of the high-rent buildings. On the eleventh floor. 'Oh, hell,' I thought, 'the higher up they are, the more they cost!' The building, it seemed, was deserted on a Sunday afternoon. Zero had a death-grip on my hand, but he didn't protest when we got into the empty elevator. He even pushed the button for #11, and I knew right then that he must be able to read! He had to have seen the directory listing in the foyer on the ground floor. It gave me hope.

When the elevator stopped, the doors slid open to reveal another set of wooden doors. There was a plaque on the one to the right, and it said: "Dr. Sebastian X. Collins, Specializing in Males, all ages, Free or Slave – ONLY. Please ring bell for service."

Zero reached out with his free hand and pressed the doorbell button.

That was it, he could read! But I didn't want to overreact. I didn't mention it. I had to save that glorious discovery for when we got home.

"Hello? How can I help you, sirs?" A very childlike voice answered us.

"Ahhh, yes, Mr. Donovan Jameson and slaveboy, Zero? We have an appointment?" I replied.

"One moment, sirs," the tiny voice replied. Then the doors slid open.

We walked into what looked like an arboretum. It was warm, and the vast room was larger than the ground floor of my house. There were support pylons here and there, ivy climbing them all, and plants that reached to the ceiling that seemed to be potted in the very floor. There were carefully pruned trees – spruces, firs, palms and citrus, and others that I didn't recognize. There were even birds, finches I thought, fluttering about and singing in the greenery.

To the right, just a few metres [~9-12 ft.] forward, was a small pond filled with dazzling koi fish. Zero ran to it at once, pointing and smiling. In the center of the pond stood a bronze statue, and Zero saw it and laughed.

It was, naturally (given the sign on the door), a naked prepubescent boy of oh – nine? – and he was holding his tiny little circumcised penis and peeing into the pond! Reminded me of that famous statue in Belgium, I think it is? His genitals were artistically small, and an overhead light shone down on his mop of curly, shoulder-length hair. One might have mistaken him for a girl, even.

"Hello?" That childish voice from the intercom said again, and we both turned around and gasped.

We were greeted by a young boy with violently orange hair, and freckles all over his very slightly tanned skin. He had an almost military haircut – shaved on the sides to a few millimetres, but gelled up longer and spiked on the top and perfectly blended in a fade cut. He had glittering blue eyes, silver rings in both ears and nipples, and the word "SLAVE" tattooed across his chest in ornate, black gothic script. The upper crook of the "S" looped over his right nipple, and the left resided at the very tip of the middle bar of the letter "E". The outlined letters were filled in with brilliant red ink, which was set off by his screaming hair color.

He was wearing slave gear, but instead of a chastity belt, he wore tight black leather short pants with silver padlocks at the high waist and leg openings. I was sure it was impossible for him to remove them, and he was barefoot.

His gear was studded black leather trimmed in silver, and when he took a step forward and offered his hand, his matching 12" [30 cm] connecting chains jingled. He looked to be 10 or 11 years old, perhaps, and I guessed him to be around 4.5' or so [1.45 m] tall; I wasn't sure, maybe more, but he was a bit taller than Zero. He was trim, somewhat muscular but not bulky. I instantly noticed that his thumb was missing, but then saw that his wrist cuffs extended into something resembling gauntlets that held his thumbs in next to his index fingers, thus making them useless. The black leather covered his palms, and his fingernails were manicured and painted glossy black.

I shook his hand, but it gave me chills. And a pounding erection, of course, I admit. This boy was the very antithesis of poor little Zero in every way imaginable, much like the 4- million/CR-godling who'd sold just before him not two days ago.

I noticed the tattoos when he gripped my hand and bowed like a little butler. His biceps were encircled in black barbed wire art, from nearly shoulder to elbow. There was, of course, a black barcode slave-ID tattoo on his left bum cheek as well. But when he bowed, I could see the outlines on his back – this little slave was in the process of having a full back piece done, in the form of angel's wings that extended from the small of his back up to the backs of his arms. It wasn't anywhere near complete, and I could only imagine the hours of pain that this strange little slave had already endured – and would yet endure – until it was complete.

The barbed wire on the backs of his arms was broken as well, as if symbolizing flight, or breaking free. It made me wonder at the irony.

"Welcome to our office and home," he greeted us in a melodic, measured voice that sounded rehearsed, yet cordial and sweet, "My name is Sebastian X. Collins II, personal slaveboy and son of Dr. Sebastian X. Collins Sr. I see you're a bit early, so I'll be your host until Daddy finishes up with his current client. Is there anything I can offer you – SIRS?" He snapped to, looking straight at me.

I noticed it then – he had to look straight at me. His spiked collar was high and heavy looking, and it was obviously a posture collar that it made it impossible for him to turn his head.

Wait – "Sir S ," he had said?

Then he turned his upper body towards Zero, still smiling. "You must be young Master Zero Jameson? I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, little sir." He bowed again. What was he doing, fishing for a tip?

"Uncle?" Zero asked, moving behind me and staring at Sebastian II with wide eyes. He pointed at the odd boy, and I could feel him trembling. Sebastian II lowered his hand and averted his eyes.

"I'm sorry, sirs," he offered, "Daddy told me all about young Master Zero from the dossier he downloaded from The Clearing House, and from the information you provided. I realize my appearance must be startling. You may punish me, if you wish."

"No," Zero offered.

"That 3;that won't be necessary then, thank you, Sebastian," I managed, as the slaveboy raised his head again and smiled.

"Thank you, sirs. You can call me 'Sebbie'. Everyone does."

It was the eyes.

Those eyes were not the eyes of a child, glittering blue and hard as agates. They were eyes that had seen things, hiding a mind that knew things, I could tell at once. They were almost maniacal.

I was frightened of his boy.

And so was Zero.

"May I take your umbrella, or your jacket, sirs?" He asked us, still referring to us in that submissive manner – even to Zero, as he smiled at him. "I like your hoodie, little sir," he added, showing off the old-style braces on his very white teeth with a less-than-genuine smile.

"NO!" Zero told him, finally breaking and dashing back to the elevator doors, where he frantically jabbed the "down" button.

But the doors did not open.

I could see a meltdown coming.