Monday, March 25, 2013

Sold! excerpt by Etienne

In Sold! by Etienne, Winston Martsolf has just graduated from college. With Clancey, his boyfriend of several years, he is on his first Peace Corps mission in East Africa. He and two other blond men are captured at gunpoint and wind up in the hands of a slaver. In the process of getting him ready to be a sex slave, his body has been sexually nullified (his external genitalia have been removed), with but one exception. One of his testicles has been moved inside his body so that he will retain his secondary sexual characteristics. As his captor explains, ‘Many of the wealthy Arabs like to mount blond young men, but they don’t like to be reminded of the fact that they are men.”

In this excerpt, Winston is about to be sold on the block. He refers to his captor as Bwana, and to the man who has become his handler as Ahmed. Winston is remembering what happened to him in a series of dream sequences.



“Go sit in that chair,” Ahmed said, pointing at one of the two empty chairs, “and no talking or you’ll be beaten.”

A few minutes later, a wheelchair whose occupant was wearing a hood was wheeled into the room, and his caretaker removed the hood and gave him the same instructions that I’d just been given. We sat for quite a while under the watchful eyes of the guards until, finally, a man in robes entered the room, pointed to one of the victims and said, “Stand up and remove your robes.”

The guy did so, and a rope ending in a sort of noose was produced. The noose was placed around his neck, tightened, and he was led from the room as naked as the day he was born, albeit missing a few body parts. Eventually, the first guy was led back to his chair, the second guy was ordered to strip, and the process began again. Finally, Ahmed entered the room and it was my turn. I stood and removed my robes as instructed, and the noose, which based on its feel was woven from silk, was placed around my neck, then Ahmed led me from the room and down a corridor.

He stood for a minute outside of a door, and when the door opened, he said softly, “Remember to follow instructions and you will be fine.”

He led me into a fairly large room with a sort of raised dais in the center. There were several rows of chairs on risers circling the dais, and I couldn’t begin to count how many men were in that room, all of them leering at my ravaged body. I put on what I hoped was a stiff upper lip as Ahmed led me to the dais where Bwana was waiting. Ahmed handed the rope to Bwana, and Bwana said, “Step up onto the dais, arms at your sides and feet spread fairly wide apart.”

I did so and stood there looking straight ahead, eyes focused on nothing in particular. The auction was carried out in Arabic, so I understood nothing other than the fact that the interest in the room seemed rather intense. Eventually, a man came up to the dais, and Bwana said, “Open your mouth.”

I did so, and the man inspected my teeth using a very grubby looking finger. The finger withdrew and I was instructed to bend over, which I did. A pair of hands spread my cheeks painfully wide, and the same finger was inserted and began to probe. It found its target quickly, and I tried to resist a slight shudder. Looking up between my legs, I saw the finger withdraw, then I watched a small flashlight being turned on and pointed in the direction of my anus. What the fuck are they looking for, hemorrhoids? I wondered. After that, I was instructed to stand. This process was repeated so many times with different men that I lost count after the tenth such inspection. When I was instructed to stand after what turned out to be the last time, for some reason I looked at the top row of chairs, focused my eyes, and saw three familiar faces. A jolt of rage went through me, but I was determined not to let it show, so I stood ramrod straight but with my back arched just a bit, clasped my hands behind my head, and stared the three men down. Finally it was over, and I was led back to the room which I now thought of as a holding cell, and Ahmed said, “You may take a seat, but do not put your robes back on just yet. Now, we wait.”

Someone came for the fourth victim, and we waited until he was eventually led back into the room. After another long wait, Bwana entered the room accompanied by a man with several tools. The man proceeded to fasten what appeared to be silver collars around each of us. I watched as the first collar was put into place, and the process made my skin crawl.

Bwana said something unintelligible to the victim, then a heavy leather pad was placed between the collar and the back of the guy’s neck, a pencil thin torch was momentarily applied to the place where the two halves of the collar joined, then a drop of something (solder?) was placed on the clasp, and the two halves were snapped together with an audible click. A second later the back of his neck was doused with water, presumably to cool the solder, if that’s what it was. Then the second guy’s turn came, and this time I clearly heard Bwana’s instructions, “Hold very, very still, unless you want to be severely burned.”

When my turn came, he repeated the instructions and I froze in place. It was painfully hot, but not quite hot enough to scorch my skin, and the cold water felt damn good afterward. I couldn’t even bear to watch the fourth victim being dealt with.

What next? I wondered. I didn’t have to wait long to find out, because a gurney was wheeled into the room, and the first victim was ordered to lie face down on it while a man tattooed some script on his ass. After him, came victim number two and then me. The tattooing didn’t hurt nearly as much as I’d feared it would, and I endured it in silence. The tattoo artist left the room after the fourth victim had gotten his tattoo, and four men entered. The first victim was again ordered to lie face down on the table. One of the men stood by the gurney and actually laid his body across the victim’s back, while another man did the same thing to his legs. The victim couldn’t move a muscle if he wanted to, which was a good thing in light of what happened next.

The remaining two men took a small torch and several small tools with handles—they resembled small hand-held potato mashers, except that they ended in small, thin, oddly shaped, vertical strips of a very shiny metal which could have been stainless steel. Using the torch, one man heated one of the metal pieces until the edges of the metal was red-hot, and with a gloved hand the other man touched it to the victims flesh. I don’t know which was worse—the victim’s screams or the smell of burning human flesh. The process was repeated two more times with other strips of metal, and when it was over the two men who’d been holding the victim down stood up, one of them produced a large gauze pad, spread some sort of substance onto it from a tube and taped it expertly over the wounds. Then the sobbing and moaning victim was helped to his feet, into his robes, and was wheeled from the room in a wheelchair.

I couldn’t bear to watch the second victim receive the same treatment knowing that I was next, but I couldn’t bear not to watch either. To my surprise, after he was wheeled from the room, I was bypassed and the fourth victim was similarly treated—I felt doubly sorry for him, given that fear had caused him to lose control of his bladder, and his legs were streaked with urine.

When I was the only victim left in the room, Ahmed pointed to the gurney and started to say something, but Bwana interrupted him, saying, “Just a minute, Ahmed.”

Then he looked at me and said, “What did you see in that room that made you look so defiant at the end? It almost caused a serious problem.”

“Until that moment, I had deliberately not looked at the faces in the audience, but for some reason after the last time I was ‘inspected’, I looked up and saw three familiar faces in the last row. One of them was my father, and he was obviously gloating over my fate; one of them was my younger brother, and the silly grin on his face told me that he was stoned out of his mind, as usual; the other man was someone who’s been a guest in our home many times over the years, but his name escapes me at the moment.”

“I shouldn’t tell you this,” Bwana said, “but because you commanded the highest price ever recorded in this auction, I will do so. The man’s name is Foster Shepherd. He’s with your State Department, and helped your father pave the way for what has happened to you.”

“Now I remember the name. Thank you. Am I to know how much I brought and who purchased me?”

“Two million American dollars, and a wealthy prince purchased you for his twenty-year-old princeling. You were very lucky in that respect, Mr. Martsolf, as many of the young men in this region haven’t quite grown into their native cruelty as yet.”

“Thank you for telling me,” I said.

Bwana said something to Ahmed, Ahmed ordered me onto the gurney, and before I knew it the two men were on top of me—it was my turn. I braced myself for what was to come, but nothing can ever prepare you for that kind of searing pain and I screamed in agony, just as the others had done. When I was no longer held down I felt a compress against my now raw flesh. There must have been some sort of topical analgesic in the salve—and a very powerful one at that—because the pain immediately lessened quite a bit. Ahmed helped me into my robes before he rolled me out of the room and down the corridor to the service elevator. I watched the numbers climbing on the indicator and saw that the letter P was one level above the sixtieth floor. When the elevator door opened, I saw that we were in a lavishly decorated corridor down which I was rolled until Ahmed stopped at a door and inserted a key into the lock. “Inside,” he said.

I stepped somewhat shakily out of the chair and into a luxury suite with stunning views of an ocean, although I wasn’t sure which ocean.

“What now?” I said.

“Now, you shower again and get ready for your new master. First I will give you instructions in the care of your wounds.”

He pointed at a door, and when I opened it I found myself in a large bedroom with an open door at one side leading to a bathroom beyond. The bathroom would have delighted even the most decadent of sybarites. It was all marble and gold, and in addition to a huge bathtub, there was a separate glassed-in shower large enough to accommodate several people. There was also a Jacuzzi in one corner of the room.

“Hurry,” Ahmed said, “you must be ready when your owner arrives.”

I took a thoroughly soapy shower, using some of the scented soap provided, and when I’d toweled myself dry, Ahmed said, “Lean against the wall with your back to me, so I can replace your bandages.”

I did as instructed, and felt the tape being ripped away, followed shortly by more blessed relief from a fresh application of whatever salve it was. Then he said, “Bend over.”

I did so, and he used what my nose detected as a scented douche to clean my nether regions, followed by some lubricant. I stood up when instructed, and he spent several minutes telling me how to care for my wounds, stressing the importance of avoiding infection.

“That’s all well and good,” I said, “but will my owner allow me to take care of this?”

“Certainly. Two million dollars has been invested in you, and he will not take any risks with your health. Since you cannot easily change the bandages yourself, one of his other slaves will be instructed to see to your care.”

Then he took me into the bedroom, pulled back the covers, told me to get under the sheets, which felt like silk or perhaps satin, and recline on the pillows.

“Now, you wait for your master, and you do what he says. The boss told you that how well you please your master will determine your treatment and your fate. I will be on guard.”

I pulled the sheet up to my waist and lay back on the pillows, doing my best to relieve any pressure against my wounds, waiting. After a very long time, a rather young-looking man came into the room and walked up to the bed.

“I am Prince Omar,” he said, “but you must call me Master.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Very good,” he said. Then he began to remove his clothing.

My new master stood beside the bed naked, revealing a slim body and an average but flaccid penis. “Suck it and make it hard,” he said, “then I will mount you.”

I moved around until I was sitting on the edge of the bed, then I bent down and did as I was ordered. It didn’t take long to get him hard as a rock, then he pushed me back down on the bed and said, “Get on your hands and knees, so I can mount you like a dog.”

“Yes, Master,” I said, and hurried to comply.

He knelt behind me and rammed his erection into me. I didn’t have to feign the expected yelps of pain, because he occasionally collided with my wounds when he thrust deeply and his body slammed into mine. Eventually, he bent down across my back and said in a whisper while he was thrusting in and out of me, “Scream some more. There are cameras and my father is watching and listening.”

I began to yell and beg him to stop hurting me. In fact, I got so carried away with my performance that I almost missed his climax. He pulled out of me, sat back on his haunches and said, “You may sit up now.”

“Thank you, Master. Would you like to mount me again?”

“Soon,” he said, “but first, I must visit the bathroom and wash your infidel smells from my body.”

I lay back on the pillows and waited. When he returned from the bathroom he was swaggering just a little. For my benefit or the cameras? I wondered. He walked back to the side of the bed and said, “Make it hard again.”

“Yes, Master,” I said. This time it took a bit longer, but he was young and randy enough that it didn’t take all that long.

“On your back, infidel,” he said, when he was once again hard.

“Yes, Master. Would you like a pillow under my ass?”

“Why would I want that?”

“It will make the entry easier for you.” Not to mention less pressure on my wounds, I thought.

"Then do it quickly.”

“Yes, Master.” I positioned one of the king-size pillows under my butt, carefully raised my legs into the air and grabbed my ankles. Then I said, “I am ready for you, Master.”

He knelt between my legs again, grabbed my ankles and went to work. It took a little bit longer for him to finish this time, and my cries of faux pain masked my feelings of pleasure—his erection was the perfect length and curved upward just a bit so that it managed to strike and rub across my prostate with every thrust. He grunted with pleasure and I once again felt his erection twitching inside me. Then I gave a little grunt of my own and some sticky white fluid spread between our bodies. When he felt the wetness he quickly pulled out of me, jumped back and said, “What is that?”

“Master is a real man,” I said, “even though he gave his slave pain, he also gave him pleasure.”

“That is disgusting,” he said, looking at the sticky white stuff on both our bodies.

“Shall I fill the bathtub for you, Master? Then you can soak all of this from your body.”

“Do it!” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said, as I scrambled quickly off the bed and scurried into the bathroom, all the while cautioning myself not to ham it up too much.

When the tub was half full, I returned to the bedroom and said, “Would Master care to test the water temperature?”

“Yes.” He followed me into the bathroom, closing the door behind us. Then he stuck his hand in the tub, smiled and said, “This is good.”

He climbed into the huge tub and asked me to get in it with him. I did, even though I winced when the water soaked through my bandages, then I leaned forward and whispered, “No cameras in the bathroom, yes?”

“None. No microphones, either.”

“Would you like me to wash your body for you?”

“Yes, please.”

I soaped both of our bodies thoroughly, then opened the drain. After that, I closed the curtain, turned on the shower, and rinsed us off. While the water was still running, he stood belly to belly with me, kissed me and said softly, “I like you already, slave.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “but even I know how dangerous this must be for you in this part of the world.”

“Yes, it is,” he said. “But as long as my father lives, I can do as I like, provided I do it in private. And when we return to our province, we will be very private.”

Oh, God, I thought. Just what I need, a gay owner in a part of the world were people were beheaded for such things.

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1 comment:

Victor J. Banis said...

Etienne, I'm afraid I'm one of the squeamish ones Eric mentioned, so I can't reallly do this justice - I gave it a quick scan and the writing seems solid, and I've already suggested it to a couple of friends whose tastes run more in that direction and who will, I feel certain, enjoy it.

Keep on writing