
WAS THIS REALLY TRUE?

By Pete Brown     petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories


Even after several weeks I still can't make up my mind - the story I heard one night sounded so fantastic that I doubted that it could actually have happened.  On the other hand, the guy who recounted it to me had that ring of truth about him:  he was completely open and honest in our dealings, and I just felt instinctively like trusting him.  What would he have had to gain by lying?  I wasn't a film producer or anything who would have paid a vast sum to make his life story, and there was no need anyway for him to tell me anything.   My job depends to a great extent on listening to what people say and forming a judgement on their reliability, and I like to think I'm pretty good at it.  On the whole therefore I was inclined to believe that at least for its greater part the story was true, but it niggled at me. 

I found myself returning again and again to the story I had been told, and in the end my curiosity got the better of me.  I tried to make contact with the guy again, but failed:  e-mails bounced, and his cell phone number gave a "number not in service" message.  Given what he had told me, I was tempted to go to the police and report the whole thing - but would they have believed me?  After all, I only half-believed it myself.  And if even some of the things he told me about the government's involvement were true, I might be placing myself in danger.  

Perhaps, even as you read this, he's once again in that horrific place he told me about, as he so much feared he would be recaptured.  But perhaps he really did finally make the break and is even now sitting on a beach somewhere, living his life quietly.  One of the reasons for writing this story and sharing it with my readers is the hope that one day Steve will read it and get in touch:  I really would like to know the truth!

Here then is the brief history of my one meeting with the man I only knew as Steve, and of his life as he related it to me.  I leave it to my readers to join me in judging whether there is any underlying truth to the tale.

MEETING

My job as a senior marketing director occasionally takes me to the East Coast, and I had an unexpected and urgent requirement to be in Manhattan for an important client meeting.  It went pretty well, but there was not time to fly home that night after it finished, and the client wanted to get back to his home in Westchester and did not wish to be entertained to dinner.

I was therefore at a loose end in the city, and hate eating alone - in fact, I usually use these occasions to skip eating at all:  driving a desk all day, it's easy to end up eating too much for the exercise that you're doing, and these occasions away from home are one way of cutting down.  I've always been in pretty good shape, ever since I was a bit of a jock at school and college, but now, in my mid-forties, it's a constant battle to keep the flab away and I have too little time for really serious exercise any more, although I do try to get to the gym three times a week at least.  

Anyway, I have a more particular pleasure on these solitary evenings in the city - especially if I've had a major success, I like to treat myself to a good fuck with an escort.  Don't get me wrong - I'm not such a monster that I can't find fuck buddies and have to pay for sex:  at home my "little black book" has a list of guys who I hook up with  regularly.  But when I'm travelling I haven't got the time to go through all the boring stuff of finding guys in the chat rooms, exchanging endless e-mails with them, getting lied to about their age and looks  (my experience is that at least half the guys there looking for sex take five years off their age, and most of the photos are, shall we say, at least "optimistic"), and then having to cope with the unreliability when guys just don't show.  What's more I've found you just can't rely on what guys say - I'm tired of having passive lumps of meat lying there when they said they were versatile! With usually only a single evening available, and only a short time in which to make arrangements, it's just easier, and much more certain, to get a professional.

My experience is that provided you get a REAL professional escort, one who's taken the time and trouble to build a decent website, you're pretty certain to get the goods as described,  he'll show up when booked, and deliver the services he promised.  You need to steer clear of the "amateurs" - students and the like who are just doing it as a way of raising a bit of extra cash, and go for the real full-time hard core professionals.  

I've had some great times with professional escorts - I always pick a guy with a body I like, of course, and then I'm usually surprised to find how articulate they can be:  you do need to talk a bit, after all, when you've finished fucking!  It's also surprised me, too, to find that a number of porn stars also escort when they're not filming - and that's a double bonus as if you later get a DVD with one of those guys in, you can relate to it much better as your body remembers the touch, feel and smell of them to go along with the writhing and groaning on the small screen.

Anyway, as was therefore my habit, having concluded my business successfully I decided to hire a guy for an hour's vigorous relaxation.  I have a certain "type" I always hire - I'm not interested in those thinks in their early twenties, as I like a muscular guy with a lot of meat on his bones.  And I don't think a guy is properly experienced (of life, not of fucking!) until he's in his mid thirties - so I always go for an older guy.  Obviously they have to have nice big dicks and low-hanging balls, and a fantastic smile in their pics always helps, too.  I'm pretty versatile myself, and like a lot of sensual body contact before and after.  So the guy has to be prepared to top or bottom, depending on my mood, and he's got to be a great kisser - it never ceases to amaze me that some escorts will allow you to fuck them in the ass or the mouth, but won't agree to kiss you.  

I sat in my hotel room, opened my laptop, jacked it into the phone, and began my search.  I don't know what attracted me to Steve - I'd never used him before - but certainly he had everything on my check list:  he said he was 37, he was 6'3" tall with a very defined, muscular body (but not grotesquely so), and he had a cute smile on his ruggedly handsome face.  Unlike a lot of escorts he hadn't locked away all his full-body shots behind AVS passwords, and I could admire his big, meaty dick and his muscular ass.   He said he was "into anything", and was happy to top or bottom.  "The client's pleasure is paramount", he wrote.  "I'm only here to make sure you have a good time in whatever way YOU want."

I called his cell phone, and he sounded pleasant:  confident and assured, and happy to discuss my requirements with me just as if we were doing any sort of business transaction.  We didn't haggle about the fee, as he was asking the regular price, but he did tell me that he didn't "clock watch" - I should book him for an hour, and if we were still going strong at the end of that time it would be because he was enjoying it, and he wouldn't clock up extras (something else you have to look out for!).

When I opened the door to my room an hour later, he was standing there in the corridor looking totally relaxed.  He was everything I had hoped for, and completely fulfilled my expectations at first sight - and, what's more, he had that extra "something", that something you just can't define:  he was downright sexy, and my dick immediately started to strain inside my slacks just at the sight of him.

I motioned him to come in, and once inside, he instinctively reached out to shake my hand.  His grip was warm and strong, and as we said hello, he immediately reached out, pulled me close to him, and kissed me full on the lips.  His tongue was in my mouth, one hand was behind my head holding me to him, and with his other hand he was stroking at my dick through my slacks.

We pulled away after a few moments, and he was grinning at me.  I just knew we were going to have an amazing time that night - those first few moments with a new guy, any new guy, are so important and he'd got it just right.  There was another thing I instantly liked, too - he didn't ask for the money upfront, as some escorts do.  I always think they should wait - after all, if they do a good job, you're going to pay them, aren't you?  And if they don't do a good job, they shouldn't expect payment.

Even before I asked he kicked off his shoes  and undid the buttons on his jeans and dropped them to the floor.  Even though it was October, he'd turned up only in jeans and a T-shirt and I saw that this was indeed all he was wearing - his beautiful cock was fully erect as his jeans fell to the floor, as he wore no underwear.  He crossed his arms in front of him and pulled his T-shirt up and over his head, and I experienced that thrill I get when guys undress like this - their dicks strain upwards as the arms are raised and the body's muscles tighten;  and you get to be able to take a really good look at the dick whilst the guy's head is covered by the T, without him knowing.  Yes, I know it's silly - after all, you've paid for it, haven't you?  But somehow, in those first few moments, even experienced sophisticated guys like me can be a little nervous, and being able to get a good look at the body with no risk of eye contact with its owner is a little bonus.

He just stood there, smiling, and I stepped back to take in the sheer physical perfection of him - not only was he beautifully muscled, but he was an even dark tan absolutely all over.  I reached out and  just couldn't help wanting to touch his silky skin  - he had a little patch of hair on his pecs, and a "treasure trail" across his hard belly leading down to a neatly-trimmed patch of dark blonde pubic hair above that magnificent dick.  As my fingers explored him, I soon realised that his balls were however shaved, although the rest of his body had a faint covering of fine almost-white silky smooth hair.  The only thing to mar the silky skin was that he was tattooed - I was a little surprised at this, as often very good looking guys like this one don't want to mar their image in case they get offered modelling assignments or something.  And these tattoos were very prominent - big black letters on his left pec, and the same on his back, on his right shoulder blade - I couldn't make out what they said, as they seemed to be in some sort of foreign script.  He also had, most unusually, a kind of bar-code on his left arm high above his biceps, almost on the shoulder.  And as my hands greedily probed his body, I felt a slight depression, almost like a wound, or a scar, on his right ass cheek.

As I ran my hands over him he continued to smile, and, unlike a lot of guys who "freeze" as you examine them, he actually helped and encouraged me by moving his arms and legs slightly under my hands, thrusting his hips towards me as I weighed his dick in my palm, and bending slightly as my hands ran over his muscular ass.  He didn't flinch, though, not even a little bit, as I rolled one of his hard nipples between my thumb and forefinger as it jutted out so proudly from his big, dark aureoles.

I really liked what I saw, and could just tell from the whole way that he conducted himself that he was completely at ease with his body and his sexuality.   As I stopped my examination, he took his dick in his hand and gently stroked it - it had been almost completely erect before, but now reared into solid perfection, and a delicious-looking dribble of pre-cum started to leak from his piss slit:  he was obviously very horny, and "primed" for action!

We smiled at each other, and started to kiss again.  He kept his face locked to mine as he helped me to start to get naked - actually I stated slowly, and then, as my own body began to react to the sheer animal maleness of him, I got more and more frantic to be as naked and free as he was, and was almost tearing at my clothes to get out of them.

We fell onto the bed, our hands exploring each others bodies, we....

Actually, this story isn't about the next hour.  Just take it from me that it was absolutely the best sex I've ever had with anyone, anywhere.   And he was even totally accommodating to my particular pleasure - throat fucking.  There aren't a lot of guys, even the professional ones, who will really let you do it properly with their necks hard against the edge of a table and your dick rammed so far down their throats that they start to pass out for lack of air - but he did, and I had that marvellous sensation you so rarely get as my dick head hit again and again at the back of his throat, and I felt him start to struggle as he began to lose consciousness.  It was only the thought of taking his lucious muscular arse that finally prevented me from shooting down his throat, and I let him get up and get on the bed.  Actually, that's part of the pleasure for me - I say "let him get up", but with his power and strength I really couldn't stop him doing whatever he wanted.  It's this feeling of a man holding himself in check, and doing what you say, so that you are in control of his raw power, that really turns me on.  But, as I said, this isn't about sex - you can read about that anywhere, and doing it is so much better than reading about it (or writing about it).

We finally lay, in intimate closeness, on the wreck of the bed, both panting slightly and covered in that delicious sheen of sweat you get after real sexual exercise.  I've told you I like people, and I just can't resist questioning guys at times like this.  Some of them won't respond, but most men are very open and somewhat vulnerable at this time, so your questions can strike home.

"Thanks, Steve.  That was fantastic.  But then you know that, don't you?"

"Uh, uh."

"I bet you get a lot of satisfied clients."

"Uh, uh."

"I hope you don't mind me asking...."

"No, ask away - I can always put something in your mouth to stop you, if I don't like the questions..".  As he said this, he grinned at me, grabbed my hand, and put it down onto his dick, that was again rock hard.  I knew what he had in mind to stop me talking!

"Well... Look.... You've got a great body.  You're a really nice guy.  You seem to be well educated..."

"Uh,  uh".

"...so why are you an escort?  I'd have thought you could make a success of any job...."

"Well, it's a a long story.  I don't think you'd be interested."

"Sure I would.  I like people, Steve, and I'm always interested in finding out more about a guy."

"No, there's not time."

I was fascinated now.  Was this just a "come on" for another hour's fee?

"No, tell me... I'll pay you for another hour."

"No, you won't.  I agreed on the phone that if we ran over, it would only be because I was enjoying myself, too, and there'd be no charge.  I'm comfortable with you somehow, and we've just had really great sex - some clients just want to fuck me, or for me to fuck them, and really treat me like dirt... Buy you've treated me as an equal, and I think we've had a great time mutually.  Actually, I need to talk to someone, so if you don't mid lying there, and don't interrupt, I'll tell you.  There's no charge - after all, you'll be doing the work by listening to me rattle on."

"That's great... So how did it start...."

"If I'm going to tell you my story, you don't have to say anything.  NOTHING at all, OK?"

"Sure... Sorry... I didn't mean to interrupt..."

With that, Steve turned over so that he was lying face down.  He buried his face in his crossed arms and kind of shucked around a bit to get comfortable.  I wriggled myself to lie alongside him, and put my body in contact with his along its length, feeling his firm, warm flesh against mine.   I threw on of my legs across his, letting it lie gently against his lovely ass.  I put one arm across his shoulders.  We both shuffled again, to get really comfortable.  It was a one of those rare moments, when two men are completely relaxed and comfortable in each others company even though they had only known each other for less than an hour.

In his masculine, easy tone, be began to tell me of his life.

STEVE'S STORY


I guess I had a pretty conventional upbringing.  Small town in the Midwest.  It's not important which one.  Only child.  Mom and dad  not divorced or anything.  Did well at High School academically, and played a lot of sports.   Girl friends.  Started fucking at fourteen, and really enjoyed it.  Good at it, too - or so the girls told me.

College - not Ivy League, but still a good school.  Read maths and physics, so was getting set up for a good job as graduates in hard sciences are always in short supply.

Mom and dad were both killed in a car crash just as I was leaving college.  It was their fault, too, so there wasn't any compensation or anything.  After the mortgage was paid off there wasn't a whole lot of inheritance - dad had quite a good job, but he'd paid a lot for me to go to college, and at least I was debt-free. 

I just didn't want to start work immediately.  I decided to take a year out, and tour the world.  It would help me get over mom and dad's death, and give me a broader perspective on life, I hoped - after all, I'd never even left the USA at that time.

Don't get me wrong - "tour the world" sounds like something that rich folk do when they retire.  I only had a few thousand dollars, so it was definitely going to be back of the plane, student hostels, buses.... no luxury, no frills.  I reckoned I just had enough to last a year, without having to work whilst I was travelling.

Most students go off to Europe, I know, but I decided to start in South America - it's so close to us here in the USA, yet most of us know almost nothing about it.  Of course everyone warned me it wasn't safe - all the drugs, the terrible governments, the violence.... But I reckoned I could take care of myself.  I was, after all, young, fit, and very strong.  I had some Spanish and learned a bit of Portuguese, and I reckoned that terrorists were really after rich tourists, not guys like me just bumming along, living the life of the "ordinary" people.

It went really well for about seven months.  I did a lot of walking in the Andes, and the relatively hard life on the road only added to my fitness.  I really didn't keep in touch with my friends back in the USA, and of course no longer had my folks, so I almost fooled myself into thinking I was a completely free-living spirit, with no ties, no hang-ups, and no emotional baggage.  They say that you should make occasional contact with the US Embassies in these countries if you're travelling, especially if you're going "up country", but I was so confident in my own abilities that I never bothered.  I guess you could say that, as far as the USA was concerned, I'd really "dropped out", and no one had "sight" of me, and, anyway, no one cared.

I should have left well alone, and not got mixed up in local affairs that were none of my business.  But I was headstrong, and when I saw how the local bandit chief was taking advantage of the peasants in a tiny village high in the mountains, I just couldn't help joining in.   I stood in the village square and tried to convince the peasants to stand up to the bandits and not give them food and money.  Numerically, I pointed out, we were far stronger.  And we had more guns.   But what we didn't have was "spirit" - I guess the habit of living under the control of the bandits was just so strong.

They came for me one night - just clubbed me senseless, before I even knew what was happening.  I woke up with a splitting headache, lying in some mountain clearing somewhere.  I went to move, and found I was hog-tied - ankles and wrists together.

I struggled to get free, but it was no use.  Oh fuck, I though, this is the end.  I'd heard about these bandits and how their reign of terror kept control over the villages, and all sorts of thoughts went through my head - I thought that it was highly likely that my mutilated corpse would be thrown from the back of a truck into the village square.  I only hoped that they'd kill me quickly -  some of the stories circulating about how they tortured men before killing them were absolutely horrifying.

They came for me a couple of hours later - they just threaded a pole through my arms and legs, and four of them carried me through the jungle paths, face down.  It hurt like hell, as the ropes cut into my wrists and ankles, and the strain on my body from being held so unnaturally made it extremely difficult to breathe.

I was dumped down in front of the chief, in a clearing, after what seemed like hours.  He looked, well, "ordinary" - a  middle aged guy, in faded clothes and with a rifle slung over his shoulder.  Perhaps there was something cruel about his face, or perhaps I'm just projecting my own views onto the situation.

"We really can't have you stirring up the villagers", he told me.  "I need to make an example of troublemakers like you.  I ought just to kill you, and cut off your limbs, and dump your pieces back in the village.  Or blind you.  Or castrate you.  Anything, to make sure they understand that you don't defy me and get away with it."

"Fuck you...", I started, then stopped as one of his men simply kicked me in the balls.  I shrieked, and vomited, with the immense pain.

"So, American... Many fine words in the village, but no ability to withstand a little punishment.  You're fortunate though, as I happen to be short of money currently.  The drug price has been falling, and our shipments aren't making the money they used to.  There's a profitable sideline in slaves, though, and I have decided to ship you off to Miami with the next batch of drugs.  They'll give me a good price for a young, well-built guy like you."

At first, I thought I must have misunderstood and got my translation wrong somewhere.  But when I was put into a cage later that day  - a very small cage made of strong metal bars, only just big enough to hold my body bent double - I began to think that I had heard correctly.

They kept me half-sedated most of the time.  The flight passed in a blur, and all I really remember is the pain from my cramped limbs in the small cage stuffed into the fuselage of the tiny plane.  At least, I comforted myself, they said I was being taken to Miami - once I was back in the USA, there would be some chance of escaping.

But there wasn't.  These drug guys had everything highly organised.  The plane landed at some isolated airstrip, the drugs were loaded into one truck, and they manhandled my cage onto another.  We drove through the night for a couple of hours, and then my cage was unloaded.  There were five or six guys there when my cage was opened, and in my half-sedated state I couldn't put up any resistance anyway.  They simply bundled me into a cell - concrete floor and walls, metal door, lavatory in the corner - and left me.

I don't really know how long I was there.  They opened the door occasionally and pushed food in, but otherwise I was left alone.  I soon realised there was no point in shouting or complaining - the cell had that "dead" sound that implied it was heavily insulated.  And the guards that brought my food never listened to what I said, or made any comment at all.

At some point I was bundled out of the cell, cuffed, gagged, and driven across town in the back of a truck.  I could tell from the sounds around that we were in the docks area, and soon I was unloaded and made to climb up the gangway into a rusty old tramp steamer.  Once aboard, the crew manhandled me down two or three ladders, and I was pushed into part of the cargo hold.

There were 30 other guys in there, and we were there for days and days as the ship evidently made a voyage.  We were kept in the pitch dark, and the only light t we had was when the door to the hold was opened occasionally and food was thrown in.  We had to piss and crap in the bilge, but at least there was a water tap so we could drink whenever we wanted.  I soon found out that all the guys were, like me, "untraceable" - dropouts, hitch hikers, guys just out of the forces... No one had a wife, parents... anyone who would really notice they had disappeared. 

We all wondered where we were going, as the voyage went on and on, but we thought we must be crossing the Atlantic as quite often the sea was extremely rough - the small tramp steamer pitched and rolled, and most of us were extremely sick.  

None of could wash, and the crap, piss and puke did not make for a nice atmosphere in the hold.  I'd read about the 19th century slave trade to the USA, and the terrible conditions the negroes endured aboard ship en route to the plantations, and I could now begin to really understand what it must have been like - although, in fairness, we did at least have enough space to move around in, and we had all been allowed to keep our clothes and were not entirely naked like the blacks had been.

It must have been days before there were the unmistakable signs that the ship was docking - the dreadful rocking motion stopped, and there were clanking and banging sounds as if it was being brought up to a dock.  When the door into our captivity was next opened, it wasn't to throw food in - instead, the rough-looking ship's crew hauled a guy out, then slammed the door again.  They came back a short time later, and took another guy.  This went on, until I decided it  was my turn - evidently they were going to take us all sooner or later, and so the earlier I went, I reasoned, the better - I didn't want to spend any more time in that hell hole.

I was bundled back up the ladders, and I could not resist the men - I was so weak after the days of confinement, and my eyes hurt abominably with the unaccustomed light. As we emerged onto the deck something else hit me - the heat!  It had been hot when we'd gone on board in Miami, if indeed it was Miami where we had left from, but here the heat was different - much hotter, and the humidity by the water made it a hundred times worse.  My wretched vomit-stained clothes stank, and now I was sweating profusely, adding to my misery.  Flies buzzed everywhere, and there was a disgusting smell of rotting seaweed and fish.

A man was standing there, and he just looked me up and down.  I went to say something to him, to demand to be let go, but before I could do so he'd just snapped one word at the crew who were holding me - "Mines".  What the hell did that mean, I wondered.

I was roughly bundled away, and down the loading ramp of the ship onto the quayside, where they pushed me into the closed back of a truck standing there. The doors on the back of the truck slammed shut behind me, and I could see in the dim light that leaked in through a few tiny cracks in the sides of the truck that there were already some of the guys from the ship's hold there..... But not many, only four.  

Over the next hour we were joined by a couple of others, and then the truck set off.  What had happened to the rest of us?  We were 30 in the hold, and now we were only seven.  We talked about this, but could think of no explanation - other than the fact that we were all the big, strong guys from the hold - the smaller, slim guys seemed to have been weeded out.  We all remembered the man at the top of the ramp saying  "mines", too.

The truck was obviously passing through the suburbs and centre of a town, and we all tried banging on the sides and shouting, to try to attract attention.  But even though the truck was frequently stopped, and we guessed from the noise of other traffic and from the hooting and shouting that was going on outside that we were stuck in heavy traffic, no one seemed to pay any attention - it was almost as if having men shouting and cursing inside a sealed truck was an everyday occurrence there.

The journey went on for hours and hours.  We soon left the town, and although we seemed occasionally to go through other smaller places, we were mostly on an open road.  It grew intolerably hot - the metal sides of the truck were almost too hot to touch from the sun beating down on the outside, and we were all sweating like pigs.  We were soon so exhausted by the heat and the motion of the truck that all we could do was lie supine on the floor.  Fortunately they had provided us with water, and there was a tank in the corner with a tap on it - by lying under the tap you could drink all you needed.  They hadn't thought about pissing, though, and we soon realised that all we could do was just move into one corner and piss there.   The stench of our piss only added to the already strong smell from our bodies and clothes, though, as we had not been able to wash now for days and days.

It cooled down as night fell - the light leaking into the truck faded, and the sides got less like the inside of an oven.  But the journey went on and on, and it seemed as if the quality of the road got worse and worse - we were being thrown around as it bumped and jerked over what must have been little more than a track.  

We found it impossible to sleep, and it was anyway soon morning, a judged by the light leaking in.  How much longer would this terrible journey go on?  We were all so wretched, we could not speak to each other, and we just lay there in misery.

But the journey did end, eventually.  The truck groaned to a halt, and there was a lot of shouting.  Then the back doors opened, and we were motioned out.

It was the bleakest place I've ever seen.  We were literally in the "middle of nowhere",  All you could see for miles around was sand and scrub.  About 50 yards away there was a long, low building made of rough concrete, surrounded by a number of other smaller buildings, all made of the same material.  There was not a scrap of colour, and everything looked "washed out", especially as the incredibly hot, white sun burned down on us.

Guards with rifles stood around, and I didn't doubt they would shoot us if we made any attempt to move.  A guy in Arab dress came out of one of the small buildings, and strode towards us.

One of the guys started to say something, but he was quickly and brutally clubbed to the ground by one of the guards using his rifle butt.  The Arab simply watched, then started to address us.

"Welcome to the rest of your lives, slaves... Because that is what you are.  You are now at the most productive, most secret, mine in the world, and this is where you will spend the rest of your life.  You will see that this is a very inhospitable place.  It is impossible to escape from on foot, as it is too far from civilisation and without water you would never make it across the desert alive, and we keep the trucks and four-wheel drives very closely supervised."

"We cannot get normal workers to work here, as we would have to provide them with too many facilities and services.  And we would have to arrange regular trips back to 'the world' for rest and relaxation.  The solution is simple - we use slaves.  You do not need rest and relaxation, and you do not need trips out.  You work so hard that you are glad simply to rest at night.  You are grateful for the simplest food - although we ensure you are well fed as we need to keep up your work rate, there is no need for fancy fruit, vegetables and meat.   You work sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, fifty two weeks a year.  Your output from the mines is therefore very high, and we can produce the same volume of work with only half the number of slaves as we would need free workers.  And, of course, once we have paid off your initial purchase price, there is nothing more: no wages, welfare, pensions...."

"I am giving you this explanation and it is the only one you will ever hear.  From today on, you will work with the rest of the slaves, and work hard.  And failure to work is punished -  the guards will whip you if you are caught slacking as they go past.  And if the part of the mine you are working in fails to meet its production target for a five-day period, every slave will receive 50 lashes at the period end."

"You are mining the incredibly rare black opals, only found here in this mine.  They are extremely valuable, but, unfortunately, also very fragile.  Industrial mining techniques cannot be used, as mechanical excavators and explosives would destroy the opals.  Consequently all work has to be done by hand, and you slaves uses shovels, picks, and hammers to break the formations in which the opals are found and extract them.  That is why we need strong slaves - you were selected for use here at the mines from the latest batch of imports into our country, and the weaker, less powerful ones were rejected.  Who knows if, ultimately, they will have ended up with the better life!  All you men have probably revelled in your power and strength all your lives, and now you will have an opportunity to use it in ways which you probably never even dreamed of."

"Now, finally, get naked..  All slaves here work totally in the nude. As you will see, it is very hot, and you do not need clothes to keep you warm.  You also do not need them for reasons of modesty - we are all men here, and none of you has anything to be ashamed about anyway as you are all extremely well built specimens.  Your nakedness is another example of how this mine runs efficiently - we do not have to spend even a single cent on clothing you, and no money on laundering uniforms or anything.  In any case, that would  require us to import even more water here to the mine, across the desert - very inefficient.  Your nakedness is also a constant reminder to you that you are slaves - without even the tiniest scrap of cloth across your loins you are just like beasts, who work away as naked as when they were born.  Every time you see your fellow slave's penis hanging there fully exposed, remember that it is the power of us, the masters, who have turned you into mere animal workers."  

I think we were all so stunned at what he was saying to take it all in at first.  Some of the guys started to argue, but were brutally clubbed by the guards, and, in the end, we all took our clothes of and stood there under the blazing sun. In one way, it was a relief - my own things were so vilely stained, stiff with dirt, and smelly, that it was almost better to be naked.   I still remember how hot the desert sand was under my naked feet, and how uncomfortable it was to walk - even though I used to go shoeless some of the time in the yard at home, here were all sorts of sharp stones digging in to me.  It's funny, really - even here, in these totally unnatural conditions, men behaved differently:  some, like me, were relatively used to being naked with other guys as we'd played a lot of sport and shared many locker rooms, so we just stood there.  But some were embarrassed, and cupped their hands over their dicks, as if trying to preserve their modesty.

Whilst we were still in a state of semi-shock from hearing about our new status, and whilst we were still exhausted from the journey, the guards took us off for "processing",   We were led into one of the small buildings, and some, guy in a white coat took blood and urine samples from us, then pumped us full of shots with a syringe.  He explained that we were getting covered against all the known bugs and diseases in that area as the mine needed "to protect its investment in its slaves" and it couldn't afford for us not to work.  He also said that serious work would not begin for three days whilst he examined our samples for existing infections - they needed to ensure we were healthy before we mixed with "the other stock", as once some infection like AIDS  "got into the herd, we could not eliminate it.  If all the new stock is infection free, then you can all fuck each other to your hearts' content.",  I wondered what he was going on about - why would we even be thinking of fucking?  Surely they didn't make women work in this hell hole?

In turn, each of us was then strapped to a table and tattooed.  I'd always thought that tattooing was something that took hours and hours, and you had to have several trips to the parlour.  But here they used something called a "rapid animal tattooer" - I saw on the box that it was intended for big cattle farms who need to mark their stock.  They dialled numbers and so on, pressed the device to you, and it fired hundreds of needles into you to carry out all the marking at the same time.   

(Author's note : as he had been speaking this last part, Steve shifted his body under me to show me, in turn, the marks I had noticed earlier on his pec, shoulder blade, and shoulder).

The worst thing, though, was the final mark - after we had all been tattooed, we were made to lie in turn on the table and were strapped down by big leather straps that one of the guards helped the doctor to really pull tight.  I could feel myself being crushed into the leather of the table top, and couldn't do anything about it.  The "doctor" had another instrument which was plugged into a power socket, and it was with a sickening dread I heard him say "The electric brander.  Such an improvement on the old coal-fired ones.  Not as spectacular, admittedly, and no atmosphere - but it leaves a much crisper, clearer, brand.  Now, slave, lie still - not that you can do much about it - as I press the white-hot brand into your ass. Any movement would spoil the crisp edges which I pride myself on.  It will hurt, I can assure you, and you may scream.  You may wonder why we brand you as well as tattooing you, and, actually, it's purely psychological - we can easily control you by looking at your slave number on your pec or back, and by scanning that barcode on your shoulder when we need to count all the slaves quickly.  But you probably don't yet truly accept your new status - once you have the mine's ownership mark permanently and indelibly burned into you, though, you should start to realise that everything is different.  If we are prepared to brand your flesh, you may begin to realise that you are completely in our power, and we will not hesitate to do whatever we want to your body."

With that, he pressed the instrument home, and I did scream.  And so did all the others, in turn.  

We were locked into one of the other small buildings, all naked together, and just lay there whimpering slightly as the pain of our brands continued to ravage through our bodies.  They basically ignored us for several days, just occasionally opening the door to throw in food, and this was our first introduction to the fare at the mine:  it was just like hard dog chow, really, and we never got anything else..  There was a hole in one corner for us to piss and crap into, and this was very hard - none of us was used to crapping in front of other guys, and with all of us naked in the tiny space, there was no way of concealing it.  Likewise with our erections - now totally naked, we just couldn't hide it from each other.  And mostly being young, we needed to jerk off - but how can you do that when you're with six other naked guys in a tiny space and they can all see, and hear, exactly what you are doing?

On the fourth morning the guards came and led us off to work - I guess we were all disease-free.  That day was just like absolutely every other day whilst I was there - the routine was absolutely invariant and unchanging.  Nothing changed. Nothing happened except the occasional arrival of new slaves like us, and that wasn't allowed to disrupt the routine.  

(Author's note:  as he said this, Steve shifted uneasily, and half sat up.  His magnificent dick and balls were hanging down towards the bed, between his muscular thighs.  I had an almost irresistible urge to reach in and fondle them, but did not want to break the magic of the moment - I knew that if I said anything, or made any overt sexual approach to Steve, he'd "snap out" of the recollection state he was in, and I'd never hear any more of his story.  So instead I just put my arm around his broad shoulders and pulled him slightly towards me, letting him know by my body language, as one guy to another, that I understood him, and that I was there for him if he needed me.   He seemed comforted by this, and began to speak again).

I was 22 years old when I went there, and 35 when I left.  In all those 13 years one day was exactly like the next.  There was never any variation.  Nothing happened.  No music.  No reading. No pictures. Nothing - just work.  I never had anything to eat except slave chow, and nothing to drink except water - and that was "recycled":  they collected the piss from us slaves and added it to the water supply so they had to carry in less across the desert.  All they needed was to provide enough to replace that we lost by sweating - and we really sweated - not any loss from our pissing.  

The guards never spoke to us except to give us orders, and they were few and far between as the day was absolutely unvarying.  I could speak to my fellow slaves, but after a time we had nothing to say - we'd all told each other our life stories, and, after that, what do you talk about when there's nothing happening?  No news,  no gossip, nothing  "new".  We were mostly silent, except when we were crying out in sexual ecstasy.  I almost forgot how to speak.  And I'm sure I started to forget how to "think", as there was nothing to "think" about.

So how did we spend out time?  Well, the day always began with the doors of that large building being opened.  There were 300 of us slaves working in the mine, and we were all herded in there every night.  There were no windows, only narrow ventilation slits high up, and the straw on the floor was only changed about every 30 days - I say "about", as we had no way of keeping track of time at all.  It was just that, occasionally, we'd go in there at night and there would be fresh straw - sweet smelling, rather than the rank stuff we had been lying on the previous night.  It was pitch black at night, as there were no lights in there.  If there was a special guy you wanted to fuck, you had to make sure you located him before the doors slammed shut, otherwise you couldn't find him in the dark.  There were no facilities of any kind - if you had to crap, you just had to do it in the straw (actually, that usually wasn't a problem - the slave chow didn't bulk much, so most of us could easily time our crapping to the "allowed" times).

It was noisy all night, of course.  Guys always moan, talk, and whimper in their sleep.  And there's always someone gently farting, or snoring, or just breathing hard.  That's after everyone had finished fucking, of course:  well, there's nothing else to do, is there?  Now I'm back in "civilisation", I can see why so many people's sex lives are so unsatisfactory - there are so many other things to do, so you don't have enough time to think about sex.  And so many alternatives - movies, restaurants, staying late at the office... you don't have time for sex, even if you have thought about it.  But we all had nothing else to think about, and every night we had time, and no distractions.  So, not unnaturally, if you have a lot of young, horny blokes locked up together, there's a lot of fucking.  

I suppose I was a virgin when I was enslaved - sure, I'd fucked lots of girls, but I'd never been up another guy's ass, or had a dick up mine.  And I'd certainly never experienced the pleasure of a dick down my throat.  Cum was about the only variety in my diet at all - the slave chow was so bland, that being allowed to swallow a load of another guy's cum was a real treat.  

I quickly discovered why we'd been kept in isolation those first few days - had anyone with AIDS, or any sexually transmitted disease, got in there, it would have spread like wildfire.  Actually, that's what I hate about being back in so-called "civilisation" - you have to wear these condoms all the time.  I hate it.  There's nothing like the feel of a hot, raw dick sliding against the delicate membranes of your ass. And when I'm fucking, I hate being all covered up - it takes away all the sensation.   Some guys now won't even suck you - I ask you - what's the point of sucking a dick if you can't take the cum down your throat?

Anyway, to get back to my daily life:  as we pulled ourselves to our feet and stumbled towards the light, most of us had hard-ons:  you know, the ones that you usually get first thing in the morning when you want to piss.  It was forbidden to piss anywhere except in the piss collectors, and as we filed out, we had to piss into one of the waiting funnels so that it could be collected and recycled back into the water supply.  Actually, I think recycled is not the right word - it implies treatment of some kind.  They just tipped it straight back into the fresh water, to bulk it out, and so everything we drank always tasted faintly of piss.

One of the most humiliating things about the guards was the way we were treated totally anonymously.  They never used our names - indeed, the guards didn't even know our names.  They hardly ever used our numbers that had been tattooed so prominently on us.  A s we went out of the door we had to pass our shoulders past a scanner, and it just recorded us:  they always knew that we were all there, therefore, and if anyone was sick, or had died, they knew who it was and could go back into the barracks and pull them out when the rest of us had left.

The scanner also triggered the food dispenser, and I held up my hands for the measured amount of slave chow I was entitled to.  They wanted us to be strong and healthy, but not go to fat!  I never felt there was quite enough and all of us felt slightly hungry all the time, and after I had crunched it down (it never took more than a couple of minutes), I carried on in the line of shuffling slaves as we moved across the desert towards the mine.

I've told you about the blazing sun, but actually first thing in the morning, as the sun rises, it's quite cold, especially when you're totally naked.  Even the barest of covering can help you to keep warm, but we were not allowed even this.  So every morning I could feel the bumps breaking out on my skin, and like most of my fellows I flapped my arms up and down to try to get a bit of warmth into them.  After the first few weeks my feet had really toughened and I had at least a quarter of an inch of hard, dry skin all over the soles, so I no longer suffered so much from the sharp gravel of the desert (or the intense heat of the sand later in the day). 

At the mine (well, it was more like a quarry, actually - a wide, deep hole in the ground which we walked down into along a sloping ramp that ran around its side) we were issued with tools, and assigned to an area.  As we moved in to our assigned area we could see a big board telling us how we were on that period's quota - no numbers, just two lines representing the target, and progress to date.  We knew that if we didn't make it, we'd be whipped.

The work was simple, but backbreaking under the baking sun.  You had to pick away at the side of the quarry to release a big piece of the wall, then use a huge hammer to break it into small pieces.  The rubble had to be sorted over, to see if there were any opals in there, and then the remaining rubble had to be shovelled into little wheeled bins.  Throughout the day, as a bin was filled, one of us had to slip a harness on and drag it up the ramp and out of the quarry.

And that's all there is to it - pick, smash, shovel... Then do it all over again.  The guards patrolled around, and if anyone was seen to be slacking, even for an instant, the whip cracked down across your back or ass.  

You didn't really sweat - it was much too hot and too dry for that as it evaporated the moment it formed, and there was of course no clothing to stop it, or to get soaked in sweat.  The young slave boys made regular rounds with water skins, and we were allowed to drink almost without limit as the owners knew that we needed to keep a good intake of water up if we were going to keep on working.

There was no break throughout the day, and we just worked on and on until it was almost sunset.  Then we were herded back towards the slave barn.  We were fed again as we went in, and allowed to piss in to the piss collectors, and to crap into a dung hole.  It's funny - before I went there, I didn't think I could ever crap in front of another guy.  But I soon learned to squat down as soon as the line advanced me to the dung hole, pull my cheeks apart, and let go.  We were pushed inside, then the doors slammed shut and we all started on our one bit of pleasure before falling into the sleep of total exhaustion.

I've told you how fanatical they were about not shipping in more water than they needed to, and so of course none was ever used to wash us.  They did recognise the need to keep us disease-free, and so every fifth day on the way in to the slave barn we went through the cleaning trough.  You've probably seen films of them disinfecting cattle and sheep on farms - well ,that's how it was for us.  There was a pit ion the floor, with a ramp leading in and a ramp leading out, and the line of slaves shuffled down the "in ramp" into the disinfectant, and moved along it as the pit got deeper and deeper until you were floating.  A guard on the edge used a sort of plunger to push your head totally under for an instant, and then you carried on, marching up the "out ramp".   One lot of disinfectant, and nothing wasted.   It didn't really get you clean, but it kept you antiseptic! 

There only other change in routine was when they clipped our hair - about every second time we had a disinfect.  One of the slaves was chosen to sit there and pedal away at a man-powered clipper machine, and they used things like sheep shearers to cut our hair down again to a quarter inch.  They also ran it over our balls, and our pits, so we only had a sort of stubble, at most, anywhere on our bodies.

Other than the total boredom, and the endless pain in my body from the hard work and the whippings, I suppose I got two things from my time there, though.  I've always had a defined, reasonably fit body, but now I had a superb one:  I had been honed and trained so that I could work and work, and had the muscles that you only get from work - you can't get those pounding away in the gym.  My neck, shoulders, thighs, ass - all were now thicker and sturdier, and I had turned from a student, into a real man.  And, of course, I came to understand the importance of proper sex, real man-to-man workouts.  They can say what they like about so-called straight sex: I've done both and I can tell you that there's no way that fucking a woman is in any way comparable to the pleasure from another guy.  And I can't imagine that a few years ago I would ever have thought that.

Of course it was totally destroying to our self-esteem to be treated just like numbered animals.  No personality, no name, just having our numbers scanned, being fed and watered, then shorn and cleaned occasionally. Not even allowed the tiniest scrap of cloth to cover our nakedness.  This isn't the way men are meant to live.  We were nothing - just bought in, and worked. 

We didn't even know what happened to us eventually - there wasn't anyone there over about 45, I guess - although we were all in such good shape it was difficult to tell.  So what did they do with older slaves?   Did they sell them on, we sometimes wondered, or just have them "put down" as you would an old animal?  Of course, it's possible that there just weren't any older guys there as the place hadn't been going that long, and none of the guys bought in, like me, had yet aged enough.  Actually, for most of the time, I didn't even know how old I was - there was just no way of keeping track of time.... Every day was exactly the same, and there were no changes in the seasons or anything.  Until I got away, I didn't know that I'd been there for  13 years and had spent all my young manhood as a slave in that never-ending relentless toil.  All we did know is that no one ever escaped - it really was impossible, and we didn't even attempt it as survival in the desert would have been impossible.  I guess slavery is always preferable to the finality of death.

It was probably worse for guys like me, actually, who had been free and who knew about the world outside.  We numbered about half the slaves, but the other half were "bred" slaves - they'd bring these shipments of young guys in occasionally - all about 16 years old - and they had been born as slaves, it turned out.  They were used in the mines for sorting out the opals after we older and stronger guys had smashed the rock, but they were worked hard, and soon grew more muscular and could do "real" work.  You could hardly speak to them as they had no concept of what you were talking about - all they knew is that they were brought up in a big building somewhere, and that for as long as they could remember they had worked at something - packing things on a production line, running machinery, and so on.  They only had a little English, and we only had a little Arabic, but as far as we could tell they didn't know things like "mother", "father", "school", and so on.  They seemed to have been brought up communally, in a herd, and then when they were "mature", they were shipped to the mines.  

They knew nothing else except a life of obedience and toil, and actually seemed to quite enjoy it - they all joined in enthusiastically in our fucking from the moment they first arrived, and were VERY experienced:  it seems they were all used to having sex from the moment they first got a hard-on, and thought it was all perfectly natural and fun.  It's almost as if they couldn't believe their luck, to be put in with these muscular, hard studs!    

Anyway, I suppose I'd have been there for ever if I hadn't  had the incredible good luck to engineer an escape.  It's a long story, and I was incredibly lucky, and I don't think anyone else will ever manage it the same way - perhaps we'd better save it for another time.  I managed to get to the capital, and into the US Embassy.  I had a real problem in convincing them I was a US citizen, as I had no papers, no money, and only a tiny scrap of cloth that I'd managed to find somewhere to cover my nakedness - it's funny, really, but after spending all that time totally naked, surrounded by other naked men, I'd completely forgotten about clothes  (The guards actually looked "funny" as they watched us and whipped us!).  But the moment I was  back in "the real world", I noticed my nakedness, and was actually embarrassed by it!

I thought that the moment I got back to the US there would be a huge uproar and complaints in the UN and all sorts of things- after all, a lot of those slaves are US citizens, as I was.  But they took me aside and told me NOTHING was going to be done - we need the oil, and the use of their country as a base for our troops too much to risk upsetting the ruler by accusing him of "unnatural slavery practices".  Indeed, I was threatened that if I ever spoke of it to anyone, or went to the press, or whatever, "the government agents" would take me out, and return me to the mines!   So I've just kept quiet for a couple of years, and you're the first person I've ever told any of this to.

(Author's note:  he stretched his magnificent body in that luxurious way only men totally at ease with themselves can do, and shuffled to make himself comfortable on my bed again.  I adjusted myself so that I was again in close contact with his sensuous skin).

Of course I had no money and no job when I got back here, and the government offered to find me work as part of the price of my silence.  But I'd had enough of being a slave, and wanted to make my own way in life.  I turned to escorting as it's the perfect job for me - I enjoy using my body, I enjoy sex, it's very well paid, and I get lots of free time.  I just couldn't face getting my obsolete scientific knowledge up to date, and going to work in an office! I'm now so much in the habit of working hard that I spend most of the day running and working out generally, then take a couple of clients at night - it's like being paid for what you really enjoy doing.  I really like sex, and it's astonishing that guys are prepared to pay me to do it with them.  

(Author's note:  he gave me another of those amazing slow smiles).    

But I'm going to give it all up - I've saved a fair bit, and I'm going to take myself off to a beach somewhere where the living costs are low, where I can spend all my time working to keep myself in shape, take the occasional client to pay for the little luxuries, and find myself a few like-minded men as regular fuck buddies.  Actually, it's about time I moved on, as I've started to notice a number of Arab guys half watching me as I move around the streets - even though I don't think our government will return me to the mines, as I've not told anyone about my experiences, I can't help thinking that the Arabs are trying to track me down - it must be a huge loss of face for them to have had a slave escape, and they can probably only recover from that if they re-take me.

I....

(Author's note:  At that moment, the phone rang.  It was my boss, congratulating me on the meeting I'd had earlier in the day that has significantly moved our contract negotiation on.  I just couldn't get rid of him off the phone, even though Steve was playfully toying with my dick as I spoke!   Our discussion went on and on, and I saw Steve tire of the game.  He swung himself off the bed, and started to pull his jeans on.   Still  l couldn't finish the call, and he pushed his feet into his sneakers, and pulled his T-shirt over his muscled torso.  He went to the door, gave me a little wave, and whispered "Call me again - it was fun for me, too".  I'm sure he'd have left without payment if I hadn't made frantic gestures at my wallet on the side table, and he came back and helped himself.  Afterwards, as I expected, having experienced the man and his honest personality, I wasn't at all surprised to find that he had taken only the exact fee from the stack of bills in there).

So, reader, there you have it.  My e-mail bounced, and his phone was disconnected.  Did the Arabs catch up with him, or is he sitting on his beach?  Was it an elaborate story, made up to pass the time and excite me - certainly I found it very erotic to hear about the way men were treated like animals and used in such a way?  Or was it true?  I leave you to judge.  I still don't know, but I'd love to find out.  He remains absolutely the sexiest man I've ever met, and I'd like to catch up with him again for that reason, too, if for no other.

Pete Brown.   April, 2003.

 

                
     
 








      

   
   

     
The end.  
    

 



    

     

