by Alden King
Hitchhiking has never been my favorite means of transportation, but under the circumstances I wasn’t left with much choice. As I stood along U.S. Route 66 somewhere west of Winslow, I recalled the events which led to my standing out in the hot Arizona sun holding up a sign to oncoming cars which simply read “L.A.”
It was summer vacation between my sophomore and junior years in college and as all previous summers, I was living at home with my parents and working a summer job at a nearby, hospital. My first two years of college had been near disasters. Both years I had just barely passed after being on the verge of flunking all during each school year. It wasn’t that I didn’t work hard; God knows I did. I guess that I just didn’t have the brains that it took to cut college work. Social pressures were pretty rough on me, too. I knew that I was gay but had not come out yet. I was very lonely but the opportunity to love another guy had never presented itself. I was forever making excuses why I couldn’t go out with come chick that one of my well-meaning friends had attempted to fix me up with. On top of all this my parents were on the verge of breaking up. Every time I was home they’d do nothing but fight and bitch at each other constantly, especially this summer.
I guess that the final straw came at work. I worked with a really cute guy my age. I really had a crush on him and for weeks I studied him, analyzing every word he said, watching his eyes and facial expressions as he looked at me, seeking some clue that would tip me off that he was gay. The morning of my departure we were in the dressing room changing into our uniforms as we had done every morning. As I stood next to him wearing only shorts, I noticed that he was staring intently at my crotch. Thinking that this was the clue that I’d been waiting for. I suddenly became excited and got a hard-on. My friend watched my growing mass and said, “What’s got you so excited?” With all the courage that I could muster, I said, trembling, “Come on, let’s stop playing games; I like you and you like me. Let’s stop hiding the fact that we’re both gay!” His eyes bulged and his mouth opened, but he couldn’t speak. He ran out of the dressing room and headed for the supervisor’s station. I was suddenly sick at the realization of what had just taken place. I threw my clothes back on and bussed it back home. As usual no one was home. I quickly packed a few essentials in a knap-sack and pocketed all the cash that I had, somewhere around eighty dollars. I wrote a note to my parents stating that I was taking off to “clear my head” and that I’d be back once I accomplished that. I knew they’d find out about the incident and so be glad that I’d left. The embarrassment of a gay son would just about kill them. After making my sign, I set out on foot to the expressway which was only about half a mile from the house.
I lucked out and was picked up by a young broad driving to Winslow for a wedding. She decided to go non-stop with the two of us switching between driving and sleeping. She was pleasant company but I detested having to continually play a straight role for so many hours. She took me several miles beyond Winslow, supposedly so she could finish telling me about her brother’s trip to L.A. Actually, her intentions weren’t so innocent as she pulled into a motel and stopped. She then looked at me and said, “I’ve plenty of time before I need to be in Winslow; the wedding’s tomorrow. Why not check in here and spend the night together?” I refused tastefully and hopped out of the car. She said nothing more and sped off back to Winslow.
I walked back to the highway and held up my sign. It was mid-afternoon. With any luck and another non-stop ride, I could be in L.A. around midnight. The sun was hot and perspiration was seeping into the fabric of my clothes. There I stood; a depressed, puzzled youth on his way to Los Angeles without the slightest idea of what I’d do once I arrived there.
I now snapped back to reality in time to see a paneled van pulling up to me. I could see that there were two occupants, both male, young and hippie-types. With a broad grin the passenger leaned out his window and told me to climb into the back. I walked around to the rear of the van and opened one of the doubled doors. To my shock I was greeted by another guy reaching out to me with a white handkerchief which he pushed against my face. The last thing that I remembered was the odor of chloroform.
When I came to I was lying on my stomach on the floor of the van with my wrists tied together behind me and a gag in my mouth. When my eyes cleared I was able to perceive the guy who’d chloroformed me; he was sitting on the floor near me and looking toward the rear of the van. He seemed to be lost in a dream world somewhere far away. He never looked at me the whole trip. The van turned off the highway onto a rough road and I was bounced around uncomfortably. I was sweating quite heavily now, both because of fear and the fact that it was so hot in the van. I feared that I was going to be killed, although I couldn’t imagine for what reason, unless these guys hated hitchhikers. I regretted ever leaving home and would have given anything to hear my parents fighting or to be taking a final exam that I knew I was flunking. Needless to say, I was terrified.
After what seemed like hours, the van finally came to a halt and I heard the two in the front get out. The one in back with me got up and opened the rear doors being greeted by the other two. The three of them lifted me out of the van; I struggled with all that was in me but it proved fruitless. Other than cursing me, they said nothing. The biggest one now lifted me over one of his shoulders and proceeded to carry me to an old barn a few yards from the van. From my vantage point I could see an old farmhouse and a corral between it and the barn. The surrounding countryside was mountainous and very beautiful. Once inside the barn I was carried to the rear and dropped onto a pile of straw. I sat up and was stunned at the sight before me: a large cage, like a jail cell, and inside the cage were two young guys, a little older-looking than I. My captor opened the door to the cage and ordered me to walk in.
I struggled to my teet and nervously joined my fellow captives inside. My gag was removed as were my tennis sneakers, socks, wallet, watch and belt. My wrists were then unbound and the guy left, locking the cage door behind him.
The other two said nothing at first; they were obviously as frightened as I was. Finally, one of them, an athletic blond-type fellow with green eyes and a strong body, spoke: “Did they pick you up hitch-hiking, too?” After my answer he described their capture. His name was Jeff, and he and the other one, a darkhaired, average looking kid named Ken, had been hitching from L.A. back to Chicago where they lived. We discussed what might be possible reasons for our kidnap and confinement. One theory from Ken was that our captors were “fags” and that we were going to be sexually abused “like those boys in Houston were.” I now believed these two were straight. None of our theories were very appealing and we changed subjects several times. We really got to know one another in those hours that we spent in the cage.
At sundown, one of the captors brought in a bowl of watermelon slices and pushed them into our cage. He then left, ignoring our pleading for information about what they were going to do to us. The fruit was a reassuring gesture. If we were to be killed, they wouldn’t bother feeding us. None of us was very hungry, but we did finish off about half the bowl. I assumed that it was grown here on the farm, and it was quite good. We grew tired and lay on tne floor. None of us slept very well. I was thankful, however, that I wasn’t alone in this situation.
The next day, after the sun had been up for a few hours, our three captors entered the barn. At the same time we could hear several cars driving up, the engines stopping, and the slamming of car doors as the occupants got out. My fellow captives and myself looKed at one another with the fear that whatever was going to happen to us would take place soon. The three entered our cell, each holding a long strip of rawhide. Each of us was commanded to hold our wrists behind our backs whereupon they were bound together securely with the rawhide. None of us resisted and we were now led out of the barn. We immediately could see several cars and a couple vans parked outside and heard several voices coming from the area of the corral. As we were led in that direction we soon could see the corral and there were seven other guys standing in it talking among themselves. I quickly surveyed each one: they were all older than myself, ranging I guessed between 24 and 34. The youngest looking one caught my eye as he turned and faced our direction. I felt a tinge within me which I identified as my instant feeling of desire for him. He was almost six feet tall, longish, dark-brown hair, very beautiful light-colored eyes (I couldn’t tell exactly what color from the distance). He wore faded levis as all the others were, and a tight-fitting, white tank top exposing a remarkable set of arms and shoulders. Straining out of the tank top were two nicely formed pecs which were topped with very sensuously protruding nipples. He was tanned over-all and completed with one of the most gentle, beautiful faces I’ve ever seen. He had no body hair that I could see and so I believed him to be young. His eyes seemed to be staring directly at me but because of the distance I couldn’t be sure. There was also the idea in my mind that none of these guys were gay: afterall, so far there had been no indication to believe otherwise. But the way that young guy looked at me…
The other six in the corral couldn’t come close to the beauty of the one in the tank-top. I could only get a quick glimpse of them as we walked by on the outside of the corral. Most were wearing black leather apparel of one kind or another, as well as leather accessories. One accessory that caught my eye was a cat-o-nine tails hanging from one guy’s belt. The sight of this instrument sent butterflies into my stomach as the unknown fear that was awaiting us began to take form in my mind. We reached the end of the corral and were led in as all eyes now watched us intently. There was a wooden platform before us, standing about two feet off the ground. We were led up a step and onto the platform and positioned side-by-side, facing the audience below. I looked around for the tank-top and found him among the grinning faces and evil-looking glances. He was not smiling and was staring at me, his eyes full of pity. I found myself praying that whatever was about to happen to me, that somehow this guy would help me. I stared back into his eyes with an expression similar to his. The only time he broke away from my eyes was to talk to a big ugly bruiser standing next to him.
The volume of conversation died down and the seven strangers began to move in closer to the platform. The tank-top and his friend positioned themselves right in front of me. As usual, my eyes were on the tank-top’s and to my delight, he smiled benignly at me. I returned the smile nervously as the ugly friend was surveying me rather intently at the same time. He noticed that the tank-top was smiling at me and he frowned. I kept my eyes on the youth most of the time, each time meeting his eyes. I knew that this was one person that I could very easily love. My crotch started to swell and with no underwear on, my excited state was very obvious—the tank-top eyed it and nodded understandingly. I was now convinced that he was gay. Ken, who was positioned next to me, turned and whispered to me: “That guy in the tank-top can’t keep his eyes off of you; he must be a fag. If all these assholes are, then we’re really in for it!” His voice was shaking as he spoke. Jeff remained quiet, gazing at his feet. The sun was beating down on us so we were sweating heavily. Not being able to wipe our brows, the salty fluid was running into our eyes.
One of our captives now spoke in a loud voice to the crowd: “Okay, men. We’re ready to start the slave auction!” At these words I suddenly felt weak and thought I was going to pass out. Ken whispered, “Shit!” and Jeff moaned quietly. It was now clear what we were in for. But I felt somewhat reassured by the interest of the tank-top and his gentle appearance. His eyes now seemed to be saying, “Don’t worry; I’m going to buy you.” The whole scene was like a dream; this couldn’t really be happening. A slave market in the twentieth century! But it was reality, and I was being auctioned off as a slave.
The voice of the announcing captor spoke up again and instructed the seven buyers to pass across the platform and inspect the “merchandise.” The men began to move and I heard the ugly guy say to the tank-top, “Come on, Peter, let’s go decide which slave we’re gonna bid against each other for.” Peter glanced at me again as they turned to walk to the platform. I-ly expression was of concern over the words of the brute, but Peter’s eyes were again reassuring. Peter and his friend were the third and fourth buyers to pass across the platform. The first just went past each of us, and muttered to each in disgust, “Too young.” The second, a tall, hunky guy wearing a leather vest and levis, stopped in front of Jeff and looked him over carefully. Reaching out and grabbing at the fabric of Jeff’s shirt, he tore it open exposing the youth’s smooth, sweaty chest.. He mumbled, “You’ll do,” as his hands explored the contours of the shaking boy’s torso, and then walked off the platform without looking at Ken or myself. Tears were filling in Jeff’s eyes, although it was difficult to tell with the sweat.
Now Peter was on the platform, preceded by his friend. The friend stopped at Jeff and spread open the torn shirt. Peter stood next to him and kept turning toward me. The friend now said about Jeff, “His tits are too small.” They now proceeded to Ken and the brute tore open his shirt exposing a better built chest than Jeff’s, but covered moderately with hair. “I don’t like body hair!” Peter kept nodding in agreement and sneaking glances at me. They now stood in front of me and my heart was beating frantically. My eyes were glued to Peter and I was breathless with his beauty. I could see now that his eyes were a very light greenish-blue. To my delight I could see that Peter had a hard-on, straining for release from the confines of his levis. The friend proceded to tear my shirt open, the force of it causing me to lose my balance and I started to fall. Peter instantly grabbed me with his powerful arms and restored me to my standing position with a smile. I smiled and said, “Thank you.”
The two of them were now examining my exposed chest—their hands touching my skin, pinching my tits. Peter’s touch was soft and gentle and sensuous. “Nice face, nice bod, young—so far so good, Peter, do you agree?”
“Yes, I do, Bob,” was Peter’s reply. “He is absolutely gorgeous, and I want him!” I was happy to hear my wish spoken by Peter, but not pleased at Bob’s reply: “We’ll see.” Bob now grabbed at my levis at the crotch and forcefully tore it open exposing my cock. He immediately grabbed it in his hands and complimented me as Peter’s eyes bulged hungrily. I’d never been told how beautiful my body was and hearing Peter and Bob rave so was a little embarrassing. Bob was convinced that I was what he wanted and Peter agreed that he wanted me, too. Peter then pleaded with Bob: “Come on, Bob. Every time I bid against you I lose—just this once let me buy him.”
“No way, friend. We’ll bid fair and square with cash. If you can outbid me for a change, you can buy him. That is, if that pussy-foot farm of yours has produced enough cash for you.”
“At least I earn my money legally!” was Peter’s reply. Bob gave him a dirty look but remained silent. Peter then added, “I thought you had enough slaves anyway. You usually buy one when you auction off an old one here. You aren’t today.” His voice was pleading. Bob replied, “Last week one of them had to be used as an example to the others; he broke my cardinal rule and tried to escape.” A look of horror came over Peter’s face as my whole body shook with fear. “You fucking sadist,” this from Peter. Bob seemed to shake off this remark and stared at my soft cock hanging in the warm sun. After a moment of silence during which Peter and I glanced hard at one another, he added, “Okay, Bob. We’ll see who wins.” His voice had the tone of surrender. Bob slapped him on the back and together they walked off the platform and took their previous position in front of me.
The four remaining buyers filed past, each making comments to each of us. The guy with the whip tore Jeff’s shirt off completely and examined his back and shoulders intently. Taking the whip in his right hand, he let the nine leather tails fall gently across the youth’s gleaming shoulders. Jeff jumped a little to the delight of the buyer who then said, “Good—you fear the lash. You’ll do fine.” Jeff’s expression was one of complete horror. None of the remaining buyers even looked at me. When they neared me, each looked to. Bob who shook his head negatively, and walked off the platform.
With the inspection over and all the buyers in their places before the platform, the auction was now ready to begin. One of the captors pushed Jeff forward and said, “What am I bid for this handsome slave?” Someone near the back shouted, “Fifty dollars!” Another, “Seventy-five!” The one with the whip called out, “One fifty!” The bidding continued with one guy backing out leaving just the whip-wielder and the guy in back, but the whip-wielder won out and bought Jeff for seven-hundred dollars. One of the captors led Jeff off the stage and exchanged him for the cash in the buyer’s hand. I watched as Jeff was led away toward the buyer’s car and was horrified when I saw the master take the whip and lay it hard across Jeff’s broad back. The crack of leather lashing heavily against bare skin was joined by Jeff’s cry of pain as the remaining buyers, except Peter, let out a cheer. Long, red lines rose from Jeff’s back and he was pushed into his master’s car. Ken was crying softly as the car bearing his best friend drove out from the farm.
Ken was then pushed forward and auctioned off to a short, fat man for five hundred and fifty dollars. He was led away by his new master and the car left my view. Ken had been crying violently which extracted jeers from the remaining men. I was now pushed forward and felt dizzy with fear and anticipation. I watched Peter who also appeared nervous. The voice of the auctioneer broke the silence announcing me and the bidding began. Bob turned to Peter and with a grin, shouted, “Five hundred dollars!” The remaining men all murmured to themselves, and Peter shakingly called, “Six hundred!” Bob’s face showed surprise and Peter managed another smile to me. “Seven hundred!” shouted Bob, followed immediately by a bid of eight hundred by Peter. I was now sweating quite heavily. Bob added a bid of nine hundred but Peter shouted “One thousand,” with a look on his face that Bob noticed and interpreted. All eyes were on these two and there wasn’t a sound other than their bidding. Peter was sweating heavily, too, and was glancing hard at me. His eyes were full of fear and I understood their hidden message as Bob did. My heart ached as I heard Bob call softly, “One thousand and five dollars.” Peter’s head was down and not facing me. Bob was grinning broadly as a cheer went up from the other buyers. The auctioneer shouted, “Sold!” and I was led off the platform to my new owner. Bob was shaking hands with the other buyers and I could see Peter, standing where he was and head down. He looked up now and I could see that he was crying, as I found myself doing. Bob took hold of one of my arms and started walking me toward Peter. One of the captors walked up to Bob and handed him my wallet which they had taken from me. Bob put the wallet in a pocket and greeted Peter.
“I tried; I really tried,” Peter said with difficulty to me. I didn’t know what to say and just stared at him. He reached out and squeezed my shoulders with his hands, his thumbs pressing against my bare skin where the torn shirt was exposing it. “I’m really sorry.” I felt more alone and deserted then than at any other time in my life. Bob extended his right hand to Peter and the two shook hands.
“No hard feelings?” asked Bob.
“No hard feelings,” answered Peter.
“Hey,” added Bob, “There’ll be other auctions; these guys pick up hitch-hikers all the time. They’ll get another chicken for you to buy sometime when I’m not in the market. By the way, stop by sometime and I’ll show you how to treat slaves!”
Peter looked up sharply at this last statement and opened his mouth to say something, but apparently thought better of the situation and just turned and walked away. I watched as he got into his car and drove away without looking back. Bob now spoke to me: “Come on, slave, time to get you home.” He pushed me along in front of him, my shirt flopping open and my levis torn but remaining around my waist. I felt sick to my stomach but nothing would come up. Bob pushed me into his van and I was forced to lie on my stomach as when I’d been captured the day before. My ankles were chained together and then he closed the doors and drove away.
We drove back the way I had come as a captive the first time; the ride most uncomfortable bound in the position that I was. My torn shirt allowed part of my bare chest to be pressed against the hard steel of the van’s floor. We finally got to the highway and the ride was much smoother. But it was short lived as we were soon on another rough gravel road and going up and down hills. We continued on for at least a couple hours. The journey was exhausting. My mind was having trouble comprehending what was happening to me: sold as a slave at a slave market; the property of this guy who paid cash for me and God only knew what he had in mind for me. And what about the slave who I was replacing? Did Bob kill him? I knew that all of my questions would be answered soon and the anticipation was frightening.
Our trip finally came to an end in the early evening. The van stopped and I heard other male voices greeting Bob as he got out of the van. “Come see the new slave!” I heard Bob say, and with that the doors opened and I looked up to see Bob standing with four hunky dudes all built very similarly and all shirtless wearing only levi cut-offs. They were all tanned and hairless. Upon seeing me they awed me simultaneously. Two of them reached in and unbound my ankles, then pulled me out of the van and stood me on my feet. My exposed chest and cock received much attention and groping as Bob related the details of the auction and the fight that Peter had put up to try and buy me. “He’s gorgeous! What’d you pay for him?” asked one. They all whistled when Bob gave them the figure. Bob added, “So at that price I expect you masters to get a lot of work out of him. He’s strong and can be treated severely if he doesn’t please you.” They continued talking as I surveyed the surroundings with awe. In front of me was a large stone castle-type house. We were at the top of a hill and the castle was built on the side of it. There were no windows and only one door. The roof was high even though the house had only one story. Not too far from the castle there stood an old farm house and next to it an old barn. The surrounding land was hilly and rocky. One of the masters turned to me and said, “Nice place, isn’t it? Slaves like you built this castle with their own sweat and blood.” I didn’t reply. Bob now commanded, “Take him to the dungeon and prepare him for his welcome. I’ll be down shortly.” The word “dungeon” struck horror into me as I was led around the castle and down the hill. The basement of the castle was apparently the dungeon and it opened out from the hill. There was only one door. Before we went in I could see a partially completed wall that would someday surround the area around the castle. There was a vegetable garden some distance away, and some large rock formations even further. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out that the slaves were for building the wall and tending the garden, now that the castle was complete.
One of the masters opened the large wooden door leading into the dungeon and I was aware of the interior’s dampness as well as the odor of male perspiration. I was pushed strongly forward through the doorway and could only see that the interior was dimly lit by kerosene torches hanging from the dungeon walls. The masters entered and closed the door behind me and allowed me to stand for a few minutes while my eyes adjusted and then took in the surroundings. The dungeon was quite large and in the shape of a semi-circle. The outside wall was straight while the inside one was circular. I recoiled in shock when I saw several young guys chained spread-eagle against the rear wall; 11 youths in all. They were naked except for brief rags around their thighs, just barely covering their pubic areas. All the slaves looked very similar—young, hairless, nicely muscled bodies and beautiful faces. All the bodies were gleaming in the light from sweat and were dirt-covered from their labors. All their eyes were on me and I felt a bit uneasy. There was a conspicuous vacancy among them; where a ninth slave should be, there was only a set of chains embedded into the wall. I knew that they were for me. I was able to perceive that some of their bodies had been recently abused. A couple bore stripes from whips, but to my horror, underneath each slave’s right arm, among scarce patches of hair, I could see the letter “B” burned into the flesh. I turned away only to notice a large wooden platform on which several instruments of torture stood. At either end of the platform were two tall, thick posts made of timber with steel rings embedded near the tops, about seven or eight feet high. I assumed correctly that these were whipping posts. At the center of the platform there was a stretch rack, apparently adjustable. The platform on which the body is stretched, was in a vertical position with a screw mechanism connecting it to the base of the rack. The vertical piece had the normal stretching device at the head of it and there were chains and leather restraints hanging from it at several locations. Not too far from the rack there was a steel bowl on a metal stand. In it some coals were burning red hot. Along the ceiling there were thick timbers crossing it and from them there descended chains over pullies, the ends of the chains going to the walls and meeting there with cranking devices.
Having allowed me time to really work myself into terror at my surroundings, the half-naked masters now led me to the torture platform. I was then restrained by steel restraints joined to chains on my wrists and ankles to the upright portion of the rack, my back to the wooden platform, facing my fellow slaves. I examined each of their faces intently and although they were all beautiful, number ten was much more so and he gazed back at me with affection in his eyes. I knew that most of the slaves were probably straight and felt that number ten was gay, and glad that I would be his “neighbor” in chains. I now noticed that at the other end of the dungeon there were six stalls, each with a double sized mattress in them. Obviously two slaves per stall, and number ten would be my “roommate.”
Bob now walked into the dungeon from the doorway and took his position in a chair from which he could view the proceedings on the torture platform. He gave the masters a nod and so the festivities were to begin.
One of the half-naked masters now stepped to the front of the platform and facing the slaves he announced: “We have bought a replacement for number nine and he appears before you for identification as slave and property of Bob Bergen. We are also going to instill punishment upon number ten for failing to keep up with his fellow slaves while working today.” I stared at number ten intently and saw that he was quite shaken and sweat poured from his body heavily, and flowed down his lightly bronzed skin. His eyes met mine and we locked upon each other for a moment, my eyes expressing sympathy and affection, his expressing understanding.
I suddenly heard cranking above my head and felt the strain on my wrists as one of the masters was now stretching my body on the rack. He turned and turned as my body grew more and more taut. When I was so stretched that I groaned in pain and found breathing difficult, he relaxed the device a couple notches. I saw another master pick up a branding iron, in the shape of a “B” at the end and place the end in the pot of burning coals. More sweat gushed from my racked body at the thought of the red hot steel pressing against and burning into the ultra-sensitive flesh of my armpit.
The master who had stretched me out, now stood in front of me and slowly but forcefully tore my already ripped clothing from my trembling body. Being exposed in this manner in front of an audience, spread-eagled and naked for everyone to see, was quite humiliating for me. The master who had just stripped me now tore my shirt in two, and taking the smaller portion, reached around my naked thighs and pulled it tightly, tying the ends together, his hands brushing heavily against my cock as he did so. I now felt the platform upon which I was restrained start descending down toward the base of the rack while a master cranked away. When I lay in a horizontal position. I could see another master soaking a piece of cloth in alcohol. He walked to me and now pressed the cloth to my right armpit, soaking the sparse hair well with the alcohol. He then produced a wooden match, and striking the tip with a fingernail, he brought the bursting flame to my armpit. My armpit erupted in flame as the alcohol-soaked hair quickly burned away. The sensitive skin did not burn although I felt a very warm sensation. The same master pushed another rag to my armpit and cleaned away the unburned alcohol as well as some ashes from the hair. My armpit was clean and dry; smooth and a little pink. My sweat quickly flowed back in and the skin was as wet as the rest of my body. I was now cranked back to the vertical position while a master stood over the coals, stirring them with the branding iron and taking it out of the bowl. He walked toward me slowly, holding the iron out in front of him. I tried to squirm loose but I could barely move. My muscles bulged from every inch of my body as I vainly attempted to escape the red glowing iron. I was begging, pleading and crying as my chest heaved violently in and out.
Sweat was flowing in rivers down my body and forming pools on to the floor. The master grinned in pleasure as he aimed the burning iron closer and closer to my helpless armpit. I screamed in agonizing terror as the hot iron, pressed heavily against my skin, burned through the layers of flesh. I stretched and writhed severely in helpless torment trying to escape the tremendous pain of this barbaric torture. I continued to cry out for several minutes after the branding iron was withdrawn, much to the delight of Bob and his masters. My body finally succumbed to its torture and I went limp in my restraints, the acute pain subsiding somewhat. My head hung against my chest as the latter heaved in and out. I was aware of what was going on around me—number ten was being lead to one of the whipping posts.
Apparently a well-trained slave, number ten offered no resistance as he was unchained from the wall, led to one of the posts, and restrained to it with his chest pressed to the post, his wrists secured to the metal rings above his head. He was stretched enough so that he could only bend his knees a slight amount. His well formed back was to me, the sweat glistening unevenly. A master now produced a cat-o-nine tails, longer than the one carried by one of the buyers, and passing his fingers through the tails, took position behind the bound and trembling slave. The master stretched his arm holding the whip as far back as he could, and with one powerful motion, swung it at the youth. The cat sailed through the air and lashed violently against the naked back. The loud crack of leather meeting flesh which I’d heard earlier in the day was joined by the scream of torment from number ten. Several long red welts rose across the center of his back as another master yelled “One!” The young slave pushed forward into the unyielding post as another stroke lashed lengthwise down his back having wrapped over his shoulder. “Two!” The whipping continued with its sickening sounds of lashing, the screams from the slave at each savagely administered stroke, and the count of the master. After the twelfth lash, the boy went limp, his knees bent slightly as he hung by his wrists from the whipping post. Bright red welts covered his entire back from his neck to where his loincloth met his ass. Several of the welts were oozing blood but it was difficult to tell which ones or how many as the whip itself was soaked with blood and sweat and at each lash deposited some of this mixture onto the naked skin. Some of the lashes wrapped around his torso to strike violently against his rib cage and well-extended armpits. This method of torture was as degrading and savage as the branding. I feared for my life and wondered how long I would hold up under this type of treatment, and what were my chances for escape.
The whipping mercifully stopped and the slave was unbound and carried to one of the stalls where he was lain on his stomach and a leg iron attached. He was weeping quietly and the bleeding had stopped—probably thanks to the salt in sweat acting as a coagulant. Two of the masters now released me from the rack and carried me to the same stall and secured me with a leg iron on the right side of number ten. I lay on my back and kept my right arm extended above my head. All the other slaves were released and taken to their stalls and placed in ankle irons. Bob and the masters extinguished all the torches but one and left the dungeon.
I was examining my brand in the dim light when number ten spoke softly: “It’ll hurt for a couple days, and it’ll be healed in a week—then it’ll look like mine.” He raised his right arm and I reached over and spreading the sparse silky brown, sweat drenched hairs aside, examined his brand. An odor of clean perspiration met my nose, not at all offensive. A couple lashes had struck him here and when my fingers accidentally touched these open wounds, he grimaced slightly. “Oh, I’m really sorry!” I apologized. He muttered something as I examined his welt-covered back intently and discovered that there weren’t as many bleeding welts as I had thought. I pulled off my covering which was soaking wet with my own sweat and dabbed it lightly over his back and ribs. I cleaned him as best as I could receiving help from his sweat as well as my own. All the time his eyes were on me, radiating affection but saying nothing. When I finished he whispered a warm thank you. I lay back down, neglecting to recover my thighs, and extending my right arm again. The pain had subsided quite a bit now. “What’s your name?” my fellow slave asked. When I told him, he answered that his name was Bill. “Are you gay?” he then asked. Without hesitation I answered yes, and immediately I realized that this was the first time in my life I’d been asked that question and I felt a little self-conscious. Before I could ask him the same question Bill said, “So am I.” I suddenly felt more comfortable. He said that only a couple of the other slaves were gay, although all the slaves were very close to each other and frequently expressed affection to one another whether gay or straight. “How long have you been here?” I asked. “About seven months now. I was captured while hitch-hiking like everyone else. How’d you like that auction? Pretty weird, huh?”
“Yeah,” I answered softly, fondly remembering Peter and his beautiful smile. “But not as weird as my branding or your whipping. Everyone seems to be in pretty good shape despite the abuse.”
He replied, “Oh, we’re not abused too much, and then only if we’ve done something wrong. Outside of tonight’s whipping, the only other thing they’ve done was branding me. As long as you do your work and obey them, they leave you alone pretty much, except for an occasional lash with a bullwhip while you’re working to remind you that you’re nothing but a worthless slave.”
“Why were you whipped tonight?” I continued.
“Well, today I worked on the wall—you see there are four work groups: three slaves each with one master. The groups are the rock breakers who cut out rock from the formations, the transporters who pull the rocks up the hill from the formations to the wall, the wall group who actually build the wall—cementing the stones together, and the last group, the gardeners, who take care of the vegetable garden that feeds everyone. I was mixing the cement for the wall—we rotate every day—and the other two slaves in the group ran out of cement before I was finished mixing a new batch.”
“Apparently you’ve been fed well.”
“Yes, they feed us pretty well and we get enough sleep. They want work out of us as well as pleasure. Most of the food we get from the garden. Someone delivers food here once a week—some friend of Bob’s. Bob’s an ex-president of Hell’s Angels and the cops have been looking for him for two years in connection with the torture-killing of a young guy in California. He’s been hiding out here, at first living in the old farm house with his four masters. They got the slave market started and turned it over to three friends of theirs when they decided to keep twelve slaves and force them to build this castle. I was captured just as the wall was being started. It’ll take another six to eight months to complete the damn thing—it’s five feet high!”
“What happens to slaves that they have to be replaced?” I continued, remembering Bob’s comment about a slave that attempted an escape. Bill went on: “We’re kept until our 21st birthday—they know when it is because Bob gets our wallets with our identification when he buys us.” I nodded remembering Bob receiving my wallet from my first captors. Bill continued, “Then we’re taken back and sold at the slave market to someone else. How old are you?”
I paused thinking that if I’m resold, Peter would have another chance to buy me. “I’m 20; I’ll be 21 in seven months.”
“You’ll be out of here long before me. I’m almost 19. I’ll miss you.” I thought this remark strange coming from someone I’d only known for less than an hour, but it was flattering.
Then I asked the question I wanted to know the answer to, but was afraid to hear it? “What happened to the slave I’m replacing?”
Bill now raised himself up onto his elbows and looked at me with very sad eyes: “His name was Paul, and he was my stall mate—he was straight, but very beautiful—just like you. He escaped a couple days ago while we were all bathing in the stream down the hill—like we do every morning. The masters were apparently distracted watching us in the pool because we were completely naked and that really turns them on. It took the masters all morning to find him. We were left in our stalls while they were searching. They know this surrounding country and Paul didn’t. They dragged him back here in chains and with us watching, they gave him 25 lashes each with the cat and a bullwhip, both, on his back and also his chest, fifty lashes in all. They whipped him so hard that each lash drew blood. He was covered with blood from his neck to his knees, all around, including his cock because they stripped him of his covering. All through it he never lost consciousness, he just hung at that post by his wrists, screaming in terrific pain and agony. Then they stretched him out on the rack until the sockets under his arms popped. While he was strapped to it, they pushed red hot pokers into his tits, burning them away. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, they forced him to carry a heavy wooden cross up the hill behind the castle, whipping him some more as he labored along. Then they nailed him to the cross and embedded the base into the ground, leaving him hanging all night and into the next afternoon when he finally died. He was the first to ever attempt an escape, and hopefully, the last.” My heart beat nervously as Bill related the torture and death of his friend. My hate for Bob and his goons intensified beyond what I thought I was capable of. We remained silent for a few minutes. Then Biil continued to fill me in on important information regarding us slaves. It seemed that Bob was only present for initiations of new slaves and the punishing of “bad” ones. I was puzzled; why didn’t Bob partake in the torturing of the slaves? Bill said that there was a rumor that Bob had his own private slave and a complete dungeon upstairs, and that it was possible that each of the masters had a private slave also. I was reassured in the thought that I would not be mistreated or killed if I “behaved myself.”
We both grew tired and decided to cease talking and get some sleep. After we said our good-nights to each other, we both stretched out on the straw; me on my back with my right arm extended, Bill on his stomach, our bodies just touching. After a few minutes of silence, Bill moved and without saying a word, spread himself on top of me. He leaned his head down to my branded armpit and I felt his warm, soft lips lightly kiss the burned skin. I then placed my left arm around his body, resting it on his back, just under his shoulder blades. He winced slightly and I jerked my arm away remembering his swollen welts, but he took hold of my arm and pushed it back to his back while softly whispering to me: “Please leave it there—I like the feel of you holding me.” He rested his head on my chest and was soon asleep, his breathing quietly breaking the silence, and feeling his heartbeat against my body. This was the first time I’d ever expressed physical affection to another guy as well as it being expressed to me. Despite the circumstances, I was happy
My dreams that night centered around Bill and Peter; we were tortured and we made love. I awoke several times and felt Bill’s body still lying on top of me, hearing and feeling him breathing. Many times I touched his face and body with my lips. My groin ached to make love with him, but felt secure in the thought that this would happen in time. I felt so strange and wonderful.
Morning was announced by the cracking of bullwhips in the hands of the masters. Bill’s eyes opened to mine and we greeted each other with a warm, passionate kiss. Bill initiated it and it all seemed so natural and beautiful. His taste was exciting and I wanted more and he obliged me. We then stood up as a master entered our stall and released us from our ankle irons. I moved my right arm up and down as Bill looked over his shoulder to inspect his back. “How’s the pit?” he asked. “Not bad—it’s scabbed over and doesn’t hurt too much. How ‘bout you?” I answered. “Same story.” I inspected his back and saw that only the lashes that had broken the skin remained and theat they were well on their way to healing. I followed Bill and the other slaves out of the dungeon and down to the stream where we bathed nude in the cool, clean water under the supervision of the masters, who couldn’t seem to keep their eyes off my crotch. I couldn’t keep mine off of Bill’s and I noticed him peeking at me every chance he could. While we were splashing around, he quickly grabbed at and held on to my cock. I instantly grew hard, to his delight, and I grabbed his. It was really exciting, just like I’d always dreamed that it would be. Our fun was cut short when we had to return to our stall for breakfast. All the other slaves introduced themselves to me and expressed concern for my brand. Some asked where I was from, had anyone been assassinated lately, etc. They were all fine people.
Breakfast consisted of large glasses of instant breakfast, orange juice, eggs and toast. Hardly slave food, and Bill assured me that all meals were plentiful, as well as good. He also told me that he and I would always be working together. Today we’d be hauling the cut stone to the wall—a strenuous job that did wonders for building up the body. We finished eating and marched off with the other slave in our group, a 17 year old straight kid named Michael. He was tall and had black hair atop a nice face. The three of us got along well and worked well together. Michael soon knew that I was gay as was Bill, and didn’t seem to mind when Bill and I exchanged gestures of affection. Occasionally, Bill or I would embrace Michael in fun; he’d blush but never offered any resistance. While working, we never were restrained in any way; of course, remembering what happened to Paul would keep anyone from attempting escape.
The first day went with no problems. The work was strenuous but I took it in stride; my body was in pretty good shape from frequent workouts. The sun was very hot and our bodies were soaked with sweat all day long. Bill told me to get used to that—sweat was a way of life around there. My tanned skin was somewhat sunburned but I knew that I would adjust in a day or two. Bill and I worked side-by-side, pulling the stone-laden carts up the hill to the wall. His straining body would flex beautiful muscles and I frequently found myself reaching out and caressing him. He was so beautiful and I knew that I was falling very much in love with him.
Work stopped late in the afternoon and we were returned to our stalls for dinner. Again, as at breakfast and lunch, we ate very well. The masters left after we were finished. Bill and I simultaneously embraced and remained locked in each others arms for several minutes. At first we simply stared into each other’s eyes; then we locked our lips together in a long kiss. We engaged in foreplay for quite a while before we pulled each other’s loincloth off. Before I knew it, his mouth was on my cock, his head moving up and down the long hard shaft in slow rhythm. I soon felt that I was about to come and lifted his head off of me. We kissed some more and he then took hold of my head and gently pulled my face to his groin. I took his cock hungrily as his hands groped my own. We were both breathing very heavily and were aware that the other slaves could hear us. I withdrew from him after a while and we lay down onto our mattress. Bill lay on his stomach, and I instantly froze. I knew he wanted me to fuck him, but I’d never fucked anyone before and wasn’t sure what to do. I bent over him on my knees and he took hold of my cock, moistening it with his own saliva. He then said, “Lay on me” and I obeyed as he guided my cock into his ass. It was a terrific sensation that I was feeling and I lay there several minutes without moving. He was groaning ecstatically. I suddenly started moving my thighs up and down, thrusting my cock in and out of him. He was breathing even heavier now and groaning more passionately. I, too, joined in the noise-making and in no time felt the onslaught of orgasm. My body trembled violently and I started yelling, drowning out Bill’s outbursts. Orgasm racked through me as I violently thrashed and winced in ecstasy. Bill’s body suddenly joined in the uncontrollable jerking and his outbursts were as loud as my own. Our contortions ceased simultaneously as we both went limp, exhausted and bathed in sweat. We lay together while I was still in him for about half an hour. Right after orgasm, I slipped one of my hands under Bill’s body at the groin and felt a small, wet pool of sperm. I kept my hand resting there for quite a while, joyful in the union of our bodies.
I lay back down on the mattress on my back and Bill laid on top of me as the night before, and after some more love-making, we fell asleep together. I was adjusting well to my life as a slave; without Bill I don’t think that I could have. In my life outside, I had everything but love. Now, as a slave, love was the only tning that I did have.
I soon learned from the other slaves that Bob was involved in smuggling drugs into the states from Mexico. Surely the feds were looking for this one of many sources, so that combined with his warrant from California instilled in each of us hope that he would be found and our freedom would be won. I also learned that I was the oldest slave and therefore would be the next one resold at the auction. As I mentioned before, this would mean another chance for Peter to buy me. But I hated to think of leaving Bill behind—we grew more and more deeply in love as time went on. And I wasn’t really sure that I would be resold. I strongly suspected that “the graduating” slaves were kept upstairs in the castle for the enjoyment of Bob and the masters. There was never any proof of this theory as no one had ever been upstairs and the thick stone walls served as excellent sound-proofing to block the possible tortured screams above, if they indeed existed. But Bob and the masters were true sadists and obviously enjoyed torturing Bill and myself the first night I was here. Since that night no one was tortured for over two months—a long time to go without gratification, unless they were being gratified upstairs during the long hours of the night. Time would provide the answer.
The days turned into weeks without much notice or variation. My brand healed, leaving a light pink “B” barely visible now as the hair was growing back. Bill’s back healed also leaving no scars to permanently disfigure the smooth, muscular flesh. My body developed well, forming larger muscles than I had as well as ones I didn’t know I had. A few times we felt the bite of a whip as we labored; my skin was never broken by this, but the pain was so intense that I developed a deathly fear of the lash. The wall construction proceeded steadily. After I’d been a slave for two months, it was half completed. The masters forecasted that the wall would be completed in another five to six months—about the time I would reach 21. Then the slaves would start on the masters’ homes. They lived in the castle now.
This night was the scene of torture again as another slave failed to work his share at splitting rocks. His punishment was more severe than Bill’s as this was the unfortunate youth’s third offense. He received thirty lashes, well-laid on with the cat. He was a fantastically well-built slave and bore his punishment better than Bill had with his twenty lashes, even though he bled more than Bill had. His lashes took quite a while to disappear. Being forced to watch his torture was not any easier after bearing my own and watching Bill’s over two months previous.
Although my life as a slave was not unbearable, there was the fact that I was not free. It’s a strange life having little or no choice in what you do from day to day. Bill and I often discussed this and one night I even tried thinking up ways of possible escape. Bill quickly quieted me nervously saying that he’d rather love me as a slave, than lose me as a dead person. I soon dropped the thought of escape—deep down inside I was a coward and knew I could never pull it off. I chose to believe that Bob would be found soon by one of the many seeking him. And surely there is a recognizable pattern to the disappearance of young male hitchhikers in Arizona. But the Houston horrors proved that this does not raise suspicions other than that of runaways.
The love between Bill and I was too good to be true. We were constantly together and yet never an angry word passed our lips. Making love was almost a nightly ritual with us. Sexual gratification made a happy slave and the whole group of us were more and more like a fraternity. I found myself thinking less and less about the outside world, including Peter. Bill’s life prior to his enslavement had been similar to my own. He, too, was a runaway. As my 21st birthday drew closer, we both became more somber. The thought of being apart was devastating. If I were auctioned off again, I was sure that Peter would become my new master. With his help, I hoped to somehow get Bill out of Bob’s hands. But would Peter be willing to help free someone else that I loved and thus not have me all to himself? I tried my best to keep Bill’s hopes up, even when mine weren’t. Our last night together was spent amid many tears. We vowed to each other our never ending love and promised fidelity.
Morning came and we were soon out cutting stone. Afternoon, and I was still working, expecting any moment to be taken away and trucked to the slave auction. When the work day was finished, Bill and I embraced each other’s dirty, sweaty body. At this point, one of the masters walked up to me. We knew that this was it and Bill and I frantically held each other, to no avail. The master bound my wrists together behind my back with rawhide and led me up the hill toward the front of the castle, as another master dragged an hysterical Bill back into the dungeon.
I really wasn’t all that surprised when I was led into the upper half of the castle, or through a set of heavy doors into another dungeon, identical to the one downstairs. There were slave stalls with awakening slaves chained in them and I was taken to the semi-circular wall and chained to it spread-eagle. The master who brought me now pulled off my loincloth and remarked, “You won’t need this anymore.” He then busied himself with releasing the other slaves and chaining them in place against the wall where I was. I glanced to the torture platform and shuddered at the sight of a slave bound to the stretch rack. He was naked and all his body hair was gone—I assumed that it had all been burned off. He was silent but his chest rose up and down with his breathing. Ugly, dried bloody branding marks were randomly located over his firm body—several under the arms, one on each of his tits. It was a horrible sight—I assumed that he’d been stretched on that rack since the previous night.
As the other slaves passed before me to be chained, I noticed that they all bore signs of recent and former abuse. Their once beautiful smooth-skinned bodies were covered with recently administered blood-drawing lashes. Old and new branding scars were common. I was aware that the alumni from below were brought here to be tortured only—no work was required—for the enjoyment of Bob and his masters. But how long did they stay here? There were only seven now, including me. Surely there must have been more? Were the others killed and is that the fate that awaited me? Since no new slaves were added since I was captured, then the most recent alumnus to the upper dungeon would have to be here for over seven months, and the others longer. How could anyone survive such constant torture as was obviously administered here for so long?
As the last slave was chained into place, the rest of the masters entered from the lower dungeon, with Bob following. Bob took a seat near the platform and the masters went to the rack and one of them started to turn the crank on the stretching device, thereby loosening the tension on the tortured slave’s body. He sighed heavily with relief as the other masters quickly released the leather restraints which held him to the rack. Two masters then lifted him from the rack and dragged him to an awaiting set of chains on the wall. When they had restrained him in his place, his body hung limp and motionless. The two masters now walked over to me and started to release me. I immediately froze with fear and started whimpering and begging. I was taken to the rack and laid on it on my back. The masters had me restrained in no time and I was stretched out to the point of pain. One of the masters now stood over me holding a cat-o-nine tails, letting the leather ends fall across my chest, armpits, stomach and crotch. The master holding the whip bent his head down to my face, and with a broad smile said, “You never did get a formal introduction to the cat.” I was covered heavily with sweat. He stepped back a couple steps and with one powerful movement of his right arm brought the nine leather tails of torment down onto my outstretched figure. The cat spread across my upper chest, tearing my flesh as it lashed. As ho pulled the whip off of me, I tried not to scream but the sudden agonizing sting released a death-rattling shriek from deep within my chest. I stretched and cringed in agony in the unyielding bonds. My muscles bulged with my effort. Another lash tore across my chest, again with the ends of the tails striking hard against my left armpit. Blood filled the pit in a small pool, mixing with the heavy sweat that had already accumulated there. The third lash struck my groin, narrowly missing my cock and balls. My agony and torment suddenly stopped and I opened my eyes to see that the master had discarded the whip. I relaxed somewhat, lifting my head briefly to survey the bloody criss-cross pattern covering my chest, and abdomen.
Another master now approached me holding a long needle in his right hand. He rested his other hand on my trembling, sweaty, bloody chest. I winced with pain as his hand pressed into some welts. His free hand now grabbed my left nipple and the hand bearing the needle came to it. I screamed out as the needle was pushed into the tip of my nipple, penetrating the soft flesh, and exited from the other side. My whole nipple throbbed as he left the needle there. He pierced my right nipple in the same fashion. I was then left stretched on the rack with the needles in place as another slave was brought to the platform. A master turned a crank on the wall and a chain with a set of wrist restraints attached descended from the ceiling. The submissive slave’s wrists were bound with the restraints, and the chain was cranked back upward with the slave rising off the floor. When the youth’s feet hung about a foot off the floor, the cranking stopped. One of the masters now grabbed a seven foot bullwhip and proceeded to lash out at the outstretched boy. The leather snake wrapped itself around the youth’s naked torso, leaving long bleeding welts behind when it was tugged off of the sweating body. The slave received fifteen or so well-laid stripes as he screamed and kicked violently—his untied legs kicking with all their might. He hung limp like a butchered animal when the master finally stopped the beating. From the scars covering his body, I assumed he was quite used to this treatment. When they were finished, the masters released me from the rack and rechained me to the wall. They then released the other slave that had just been whipped and restrained him upon the rack on his stomach. One by one the masters, now completely naked, straddled the boy’s body and slipped their unlubricated cocks into his ass and fucked him. As each master got off of him, there remained on their bodies some of his blood mixed with sweat. Bob was the last and when he was finished, the boy was taken to his stall. One by one, the remainder of us were taken to a stall, the needles being taken out of my tits before I was unchained. I was alone in my stall and wept bitterly all night (and day), mourning my new fate, my tortures, and the absence of Bill. I knew that one day soon Bob would be at the slave auction and that he’d see Peter who would inquire about me. Maybe Peter would offer to buy me from Bob. It was the only hope that remained.
One by one the other slaves awoke, I talked with each, not even seeing their faces. I learned that they all were alumni from below, and this news was not at all encouraging. I wondered how Bill was doing without me, and realized that he was lucky because of his young age, that he had better than a year to go before he would end up here with Bob and his beasts.
Before I knew it, it was nightfall and I heard the masters come into the dungeon. Their voices echoed against the stone walls and I heard them say that Bob would be back from the auction soon and that we could start without him. One of them mentioned that the fact that he wasn’t back yet indicated that he hadn’t bought another slave. One by one the masters released the other slaves and chained them to the wall. I was the last one they came to and instead of taking me to the wall, they led me to the whipping post. I started to fight them but their arms were unyielding. I was bound to the whipping post, facing it, and my wrists restrained with rawhide stretched above my head. Two other masters now picked up two very long bullwhips and took positions behind me. The first lash tore into my sweating flesh and left an oozing stripe of blood across the hollow of my back. As the first whip left my skin, the second landed savagely into me and wrapped around my waist, trailing against my lower left rib cage. Each lash pushed me into the unmoving post. I cried out at each and was soon hanging limp.
After receiving about ten lashes, I heard the dungeon door open and the two masters whipping me dropped their bullwhips and walked to the door, which was behind me. They greeted Bob and also said, “Who’s the hunk with you?” Before Bob could reply, I heard a familiar voice. I shook in disbelief as I knew that the voice was that of Peter. He now stopped at my side where I had turned my head to see him. His eyes widened as he looked at me and smiled and said do not worry, I will get you out of here. I looked at him as I was crying. He reached a hand to me and pressed it against my face affectionately. Tears ran down my face as he quietly gazed into my eyes. I was so overcome I couldn’t speak. His hands now embraced my naked, tortured body tenderly, blood rubbing off onto his clothes. He quickly turned to Bob, who with the masters, was standing back at the door, apparently enjoying the whole scene. “How much will you take for this one, you fucking sadist?”
“Ah,” Bob answered, “Do you still want him? He’s a mess!”
“Damn it, yes!” I watched as Peter sweated in angry debate with Bob for me. Bob asked Peter, “Do you want this slave so much that you’re willing to submit to me in exchange?” Peter’s face radiated incomprehension and puzzlement. Bob saw this and rephrased his offer: “Are you willing to submit yourself to the cat?” Peter looked to the wall next to me from which a variety of whips, including several cat-o-nine tails were suspended. His trembling eyes then went to mine and without diverting them, he answered, “Yes.” Again the tears filled my eyes. He kept staring as two masters proceeded to tie his wrists to the same post as I was tied to, except on the other side.
Bob now shouted, “Strip him!” All four masters walked up to Peter and stood close to him. Simultaneously they reached at various parts of his clothing and began tearing the fabric from his body. Peter kept gazing at me as my eyes followed the shreds of naked skin which were slowly being exposed before me. My eyes bulged as his truly remarkable body was revealed to me: large, muscular pecs with bronze protruding nipples bulging from his well- formed, smooth chest. Large, hairless arms with soft golden hair soaked with sweat descending from his armpits, topped with broad shoulders. A trim waist and thighs producing an average sized cock and balls. His beauty was breathtaking and even the masters commented after they’d finished stripping him. Peter was still smiling as my eyes met his and he whispered, “It’s all yours.” I smiled shyly back thinking, “I know I could love you, but I love Bill!” Bob was now standing behind Peter with a long cat hanging from his right hand. Peter now pulled on his arms, causing his biceps to bulge, he was truly beautiful. Bob then remarked, “I paid $1,000 for this worthless slave, Peter, how about $10.00 for each lash I give the two of you with the cat and $50.00 for each with the bullwhip, until I recover my $1,000, then he is yours, free and clear. Peter nodded his head in understanding, he knew that Bob had no use for the $1,000 and that he could not buy me for cash, this was the only way. Bob then told one of the other masters to keep track, and added not to cheat the gentleman, with a snicker. The cat slapped against Peter and I could see the tails spread around his ribs and each dig into the skin from his waist to his armpit, leaving open welts in their wake. Peter winced violently against the post but remained steady. The second lash tore into his shoulders and back and again Peter responded, as again he savagely laid into Peter with the cat, even though I was not being hit I could feel every lash. I heard the other master call out $120.00, which meant Peter had been hit 12 times. Peter had yelled out very little considering the severity of the whipping. Bob then lashed out at me savagely maybe 5 to 10 times. I tried to hold up but could not and was jumping and pleading at every lash. When Bob finally quit swinging I heard the master call out $250.00. Bob then lay the cat down as he walked over to Peter and started rubbing his ass, as he said, I will knock off $250.00 if I can fuck this. Peter looked him in the face and said, no way, stick to your arrangement Bob, as one Master to another. Bob had a look of anger on his face but smiled and said, “All right, as you wish.” Bob then went to the bullwhip, he grabbed it and swung it savagely through the air as it wrapped around Peter and I both. My vision turned solid red with pain as I screamed. Before I had stopped Bob yanked the whip back, opening the welts more and causing even more pain. The whip came again and again as the master in the background was counting out dollar figures, the last one I remember hearing was $550.00, as Bob seemed to go mad. Peter never lost consciousness during the entire whipping but I was not so strong.
When I awakened, I was lying on the floor, dressed in the same clothes I arrived in. Peter was standing over me. I looked in his face. He said, “It is all right now, let’s go home.” I heard Bob snickering in the background, talking to the other masters he said, “Isn’t this touching. My hatred for him again kindled as I thought of what he had just done to Peter and I. I was thinking that now I must belong to Peter and somehow this would be okay. Surely Peter did not approve, did he? How could I turn Bob and his thugs over to the police without involving Peter? Was I free or not. I suddenly remembered Bill and broke away from Peter and ran out of the dungeon crying, “Bill! Bill!” I ran into the lower dungeon and started yelling Bill’s name panic stricken. The slaves were instantly awake and I ran to my old stall. To my horror, it was empty. I screamed his name and was grabbed from behind and locked in a strong embrace by Peter. I pushed free and shouted at him, “I’ve got to find Bill! He’s my lover!” A sad look immediately shadowed Peter’s face. Someone now yelled, “Out in back—up the hill—on the cross!” My heart started racing frantically and I ran back outside and up the hill. I ran breathless up the hill. In the dim light I could see the silhouette of a crucifixion before me—my lover’s naked, tortured body hanging motionless from the large wooden cross embedded into the ground, his feet resting, nailed to the wood about two feet off the ground. I was weeping hysterically as I ran up to Bill and wrapped by body around his and the cross. Peter reached me and stood still, his hands touching my shoulders as he stared up at Bill’s bleeding body. Bill’s chest came to my face4 and I kissed him violently. His fles was warm and I could hear his heart beating faintly. Bloody stripes criss-crossed his entire body from his neck to his knees. His nipples were burned open and oozing blood and fluid. His eyes slowly opened and looked into mine.
“Mark!” he called softly with a raspy voice.
I told him not to speak but he went on. “I tried to escape—to find you. I missed you so badly I had to be with you.” Peter watched attentively. Bill spoke again, sounding very far away. “Mark—can we live together forever?”
“Yes, Bill, we can.” I answered.
“I love you,” he added. His eyes closed and he was suddenly very still. I called his name. No reply. Bob, meanwhile, had walked up the hill to join Peter and I. After a few seconds they looked at each other and shook their heads. Bob had a snicker on his face, Peter a look of horror. I suddenly shrieked in comprehension and embraced the lifeless body with all the strength I had. Peter was now holding me, trying to pull me away from Bill. I was screaming frantically as I realized Bill was dead. The last thing I remember was collapsing into Peter’s arms, to be taken away into my new life as a slave, with Peter.
