"
Yeah.”
T
he car pulled up in front of the Transition Center as
Jeremy signed the last of the required paperwork. He noticed with a sick feeling that one of the papers required him to admit that he wasn’t a human being. As he handed the clipboard back to the friendly agent, the man handcuffed him. Jeremy stared.
“Sorry. Regulations.”
Several burly men dressed in black uniforms came to the car. One of them reached in and hauled Jeremy out of the car none too gently. Fear gnawed at his belly.
I have to just take whatever happens. No matter what it might be. For Amy.
T
he men dragged Jeremy into the Center, although he struggled to walk on his own to show willingness. Another team came and took him into the back of the building through a maze of corridors. He heard a buzzing noise before he found himself shoved into a tiny cubicle and strapped to a chair. On the table next to the chair were a variety of tools of a kind he had never seen before.
A
fter a short silent wait,
an older man with iPod buds in
his ears bustled into the room. Fetching a rolling stool from the corner he sat down and rolled J
eremy’s right sleeve up.
Jeremy
tensed as he realized he was about to get some
ki
nd of tattoo. He remembered then that all the personal slaves he had ever seen had a bar code tattooed on the inside of their right wrists. He braced himself. The pain wasn’t too bad, but it was appreciable. The man applying the tattoo, blotted the blood off, and showed it to the remaining stone-faced handler who nodded and sort of grunted. After some kind of cream had been applied and a loose bandage affixed, his current handler shoved him into a small, totally bare room and locked the door.
Jeremy sank to the floor to wait for what came next. He couldn’t seem to think very well
. H
e felt nothing.
Numb.
Maybe I’m in shock.
He couldn’t even summon up any interest in speculating about
what might happen to him here. He noted that the floor felt padded and, after waiting a long time, he stretched out and tried to sleep.
Sleep refused to grace him wit
h its presence, but the odd
numbness and inability to concentrate lingered. Jeremy basically lay on the floor in a state of dormancy. He had no idea how long he stayed in that condition before Transition Center employees fetched him for “initial evaluation.” His clothes were taken from him and he was given loose white scrubs to wear. He was allowed to shower and then underwent the most thorough medical
examination
he ever had followed by breakfast. Breakfast consisted of “slave rations”; a bowlful of white, totally tasteless warm glop with the consistency and texture of oatmeal and a glass of water. Then he was stripped again and evaluated by a personal trainer.
T
he trainer who wore a name badge stating that he was Mr. Boyd whistled as he walked around Jeremy making notes.
“You’re already in excellent shape; but in three months you’ll be perfect,” he promised.
He set a grueling exercise routine for Jeremy, explaining that he wanted to further define Jeremy’s muscle groups and pull out subtle fat deposits. “The food they’re giving you now is completely fat-free. You’re going to look like an anatomy poster,” Mr. Boyd gushed.
“With all that
blond
hair an
d those eyes…you could set some
kind of sales’ record!”
Jeremy liked having something to do. He had always enjoyed working out and found his new regimen demanding but satisfying. After his work-out he went to “class.” A small spark of interest glowed weak
ly
in his mind as natural curiosity about what to expect living as a personal slave stirred. The “lesson”
consisted of
obvious propaganda
and
seemed to conceal more than revealing the nature of what
he could
expect. He shared class with forty other young men, all who had come
into the center the same day.
“My name is Ms. Clyde, and I am your Orientation Mentor
,
” the tutor began, “you are all being sold as feral. This means that the
customer buying you will be looking to do his or her own training. Most personal slaves are received in the Training Center before age six and have at least ten years of training before being put on the private market. We will only have three months with you. We can correct minor fitness and health problems but we do not have time to deal with attitude and behavior issues. But, like I said, most Masters looking for feral personal slaves want to do their own training.”
Jeremy knew she must be leaving out important information.
Why would a Master want to do his or
her own training unless..
.they had unusual needs and desires?
Jeremy sighed.
Great
. Now, in addition to dreading trying to have sex with another man, he probably had to worry about being tortured and beaten.
He figured she was trying
to avoid saying
that sadists would most likely be loo
king to do their own training. P
anic tried to gain a foothold, but Jeremy’s general state of depression killed it. It was what it was. Anything would be better than thinking that Amy would wind up in one of the brothels the IRS agent described to him.
He zoned out temporarily. When
his conscious mind returned to
the lesson, the tutor seemed to be explaining the auction process. He learned that he would be put on display where customers could view him, but he wouldn’t be able to see them. He also learned that he would only have three chances at an auction to be sold. After that, if the upper class Masters who attended auctions didn’t want him, he would be offered to the state brothel system, anyway.
The
difference being that the state would have to pay a set sum for him, which could be applied to his family’s debt.
Jeremy set his jaw. He knew what he looked like. He felt certain that he would be bought by a private party. He settled
d
own to take in the rest of the lesson.
Chapter Four
T
hree months later
Jeremy fought with his
fear
as one of his handlers
instructed
him to strip, face a mirrored wall, and sit on the small bed in the
room with his legs spread. Jeremy studied the mirrored wall and instinctively knew it had to be one-way glass. Sitting on the bed the
way he had been instructed would put everything he had on display for the on-lookers walking down the hall. He couldn’t remember ever being this embarrassed or feeling so humiliated before.
His Orientation Mentor discussed being sold and having the right mindset to be able to submit to a Master. But she didn’t discuss the actual mechanics of displaying yourself like meat at the grocery. Or how that would feel. He suddenly wondered why in the hell he had to sit through long classes on the science of slave mentality and the philosophy of slavery. He would have greatly appreciated
more practical instruction right about now. He sat with his legs apart and hung his head. His handler came over and kicked his feet further apart and pulled his head up.
“Do I have to get the leg spreader? Do you really want me to put a stock on your neck?”
Jeremy wasn’t sure what either one of those things were,
but
he doubted he would enjoy them.
“No, sir.” He sighed.
The handler’s demeanor softened
.
“Remember, you’re doing this for your family.
You’re very
attractive. Seeming willing in addition will fetch a higher price. You’re down here in the feral wing, so bargain hunters will be coming down this hall along with the kind of man who enjoys
subjugating
the already broken.
Y
ou won’t appeal to that kind so much if you act like you know what you’re doing
...
that you have a little
spirit. We both know you hate this. You don’t want to let a potential sadist know.”
Jeremy’s head spun. “
Th
-thank you, you didn’t have to tell me
t
hat.”
"
You have been with other men before haven’t you?”
J
eremy shook his head slowly. “Only with women.” He
k
ept to himself the fact that the deepest most passionate attraction he ever had in his life involved another man.
T
he handler looked upset. “Dear God.” He sat down next to Jeremy and patted his thigh absently. “Potential buyers have the right to a sample
.
Jeremy stared at him until the meaning came clear suddenly. No!”
“Yes. If a buyer wants a sample you have to do whatever they want to the best of your ability. Otherwise, you will be forced to comply; and maybe flogged.
That could lower your value significantly
...
both for being unwilling and for scarring that pretty back of yours. Of course there are some people who might find that a plus. You really don’t want one of them to buy you.”
“But…but…I don’t ha
ve any idea what to do. If some
man wants me to blow him, I’ll vomit.” Jeremy didn’t even let himself think about other options.
“You won’t. You’ll think about your fam
ily and do what you have to do.”
Jeremy stared wild-eyed at the handler as he rose to
leave. “It doesn’t always happen. I just wanted you to know so that you’ll have time to get used to the idea.”
Jeremy shut his eyes tig
ht, willing himself not to cry.
Rationally he had known that he probably offered himself up for a lifetime of rape and abuse. He just didn’t know that it would actually start tonight.
*****
E
van signed his name at the door and produced his diamond American Express card. He was given a bidding number and a glass of very expensive champagne. This was the fourth auction he had attended. So far, he had been unable to even persuade himself to make a bid. None of the products on offer interested him in the least. The trained slaves were all dead eyed and plastic.
H
e concentrated on trying to find a slave whose appearance and demeanor could convince his father that
Evan
actually engaged in
s
exual activity with it. Not that he would ever make use of any slave he bought. It would be for appearances only so that he could
get back to work. He sometimes wished that he could have stomached keeping his Satisfaction appointments. In the beginning, he really thought that would be the easiest of the options Allen gave him. Until he tried.
Evan
made his first appointment the day after Allen suspended him, figuring he needed to get back to work as soon as possible. The local Center for Sexual Health and Well-Being, better known as the Satisfaction Center, turned out to be an old farmhouse on the outskirts of town, converted into a weird building that suggested the offspring of Tara cross
-
bred with some kind of clinic. When he admitted that it was his first visit, he was escorted to a tiny room with a wing chair and a disc player / monitor and asked to watch an orientation disc, and fill out an extremely detailed survey concerning his sexual history and personal preferences.
T
he orientation program outdid anything Evan had ever seen before for sheer cheesiness. The makers of the video couldn’t seem to decide whether to go for an air of gentle joshing with a “nudge, nudge, wink, wink” sensibility or to take a serious medical tone. Evan actually chuckled at some of it. He won
dered what age group the film’s
producers groped toward reaching. But then, a film explaining
the psychological and physical importance of orgasm couldn’t be easy to make. He found the survey questions intrusive and disturbing.