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Sold To A Melbourne Crime Boss (Mark Andrews)

Sold To A Melbourne Crime Boss by Mark Andrews

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I am certainly no genius but I had always passed my examinations.

When I failed my finals having reached the required age of eighteen years, I was shocked to the core, but the examination machines never made a mistake and I was thus automatically a slave for the rest of my life.

To make matters far, far worse, I was sold to one of Melbourne’s leading crime bosses. This is my story.

Product type: EBook    Published by: Fiction4All    Published: 3 / 2019

No. words: 33500

Style: Male Dom - M/M, Sex Slavery / Training

Available Formats: MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


Chapter 1

I stood on the block in the sales auditorium of the State Slave Centre (SSC) in a sea of horror at what was now facing me.
I knew very well that I was no genius, my strengths lay in sports, all manner of them and at which I was one of the school’s best performers. I had always managed to scrape through my exams throughout my academic life at school and assumed that that would be the case for my finals.
Alas, it wasn’t to be and then at the interview that followed the day after the exams, the assessment committee whilst sympathetic, had no option but to consign me to slavery for the rest of my life.
These days, you sat for your exams in an electronic booth that fired questions at you relating to each of your subjects and automatically assessed you as the day moved on. And the results were there for you to see on the screen at the end of the process. Everyone claimed that the system was foolproof and never made mistakes and of course I simply assumed that the tension and pressure had somehow got to me causing me to be failed.
My parents were notified but I never saw them again. I and the other failures of that day were transferred in the matter transporter to the SSC and processed forthwith. It is a quite brutal process – intentionally. The people who invented this new era of criminal slavery, which also included failed high school students, wanted to ensure that the change from free man to slave was handled as quickly and painlessly as possible.
As we were delivered into the SSC’s matter transporter we were ordered to strip naked, our clothes destined for the poor, and delivered into the denuding booth that in a few seconds permanently removed all facial and body hair so that from the eyes down, we were quite hairless.
Auctions of the week’s slaves were held on Saturday mornings and in the meantime every single new slave was put to hard exercising and of course fed only Slave Chow pellets which, while absolutely tasteless and rather horrible until you got used to them provided perfect sustenance for slaves. A double handful night and morning followed by the intake of as much water as you needed, is all that is required and is a simple, cheap and easy way to feed your slaves.
We were also tagged with a tiny silicon chip that is glued to a male testicle or female clitoris. In the case of we males, the genital organs are sprayed with alcohol (which burns like hell), a tiny slit is made in the scrotum, the wax paper is removed from the extremely small, paper-thin chip which is then simply placed onto the wall of the testicle itself and a Band-Aid placed over the wound. This is then programmed to the SSC’s master computer.
It provides not only a GPS signal but has a number of other functions which I will enumerate as my story unfolds.
My name is Julian Scott and my parents were your normal middle-class people, my father being the manager of the Camberwell branch of the Woolworths store. We lived locally and thus I had attended the Camberwell High School. As I said, my forte was in sports as my body was well suited to them. I am tall and athletic and I have curly blond hair and blue eyes and I believe I am considered good-looking. I certainly had no trouble finding girlfriends and with a couple of them had gone as far as one could until the age of eighteen years – and I certainly had no interest in males as sexual objects.
My examination had been on Tuesday and so it was on that day, late afternoon, that I was transported to the SSC. I thus had four days and nights of mindless exercise interspersed with educational sessions on what was expected of a slave. Those days lasted from six in the morning until nine at night and there were few if any breaks. We learned the various positions of slavery, slave deportment and manners and above all, that blind obedience to any order by a free person was absolutely mandatory.
We slept naked and nude on the concrete floor of the accommodation floor. There were no beds, our sleeping areas delineated by lines painted on the slick concrete and if we moved even a finger out over that line to the next virtual cell, the system automatically zapped us and believe me, once having experienced that you were ultra careful not to allow it to happen again.
And so now, here I was, standing on the block in the enormous sales auditorium being offered for sale to the highest bidder. I knew what this meant. It was dinned into every child throughout his or her young years. Hard labour, every day of the week, fifteen hours a day, no exceptions.
And of course, absolute obedience to anything that might be demanded of him – including sex. I knew I was good-looking and that my body, having been trained in so many sporting endeavours was at its peak. Sex was very likely to be only one of the many tasks that I would be facing – and if I was bought by a man, and he happened to be gay, then I would be required to serve him in any way he demanded.
By this time, towards the end of the 21st-century, all remaining prejudices against gay men and women had long been eliminated but that didn’t mean that a heterosexual person had to submit to another of his or her own gender – unless he happened to be a slave, in which case he most certainly did and as I stood there, outwardly calm but churning in fear inside as I stared out at the sea of dimly lit faces below me and rising up to the back of the huge room, I hoped to God that I wouldn’t be purchased by such a man.
I was well aware because every school curriculum covered such things in social studies, that only 5% of the population is orientated towards their own sex. That’s pretty good odds, I thought. Nevertheless, there was this nagging feeling of worry. How was I going to cope with the demands of a man to give him sexual pleasure, presumably with my mouth and my backside, both of which sent shivers of fear up and down my spine.
Of course we had no idea who was bidding on us. Every buyer in the room logged into the bidding unit that formed part of his seat. Facial recognition technology automatically identifies him or her and all he has to do is confirm that it got it right with the push of a single button and from then on, if he wishes to increase the bid, it is done instantaneously and appears up on the huge screen behind the block upon which I was standing, only identifying the latest bidder by his seat number. Of course the SSC’s master computer knows exactly who it is and upon it knocking the slave down to him, will automatically transfer the sum bid to its own bank account. All very simple and allows for a rapid throughput of all the slaves due for sale on that day.
I thus had no idea who my buyer was until he duly collected me in the delivery room at the end of the sale. And this too is a highly efficient system with each of us slaves coming through in a line in order of our sale to meet our buyer at the dispatch clerk’s desk.
The same facial recognition software identifies us both in seconds and I was handed over to my buyer.
As soon as I set eyes on him I knew exactly who he was and that my life from then on was going to be hell. His name is Guy Haddon and he is well known as a crime boss in the city of Melbourne, capital of Victoria in the Commonwealth of Australia. He had been ultra smart in the way he conducted his nefarious activities despite all the best efforts of the Victoria police to nail him which upon conviction, would have seen him joining the ranks of we slaves at the next slave auction.
He was a handsome enough devil, aged in his early forties but he was absolutely ruthless not only with those from whom he extorted vast sums of money but also with his own men from whom he demanded absolute loyalty and obedience.
Most such gang bosses have a floozy on their arm. Not him. He was notoriously and absolutely gay but certainly not effeminate in any way, shape or form. He was very masculine in manner and kept himself as fit as a man half his age. He had never bothered with a male lover but used muscular or athletic and handsome young males slaves for his sexual pleasure.
Such were the demands he placed on them, that they never lasted very long and having been drained of their youth and vigour, were consigned to the scrapheap of base labourer for the rest of their lives.
All this was common knowledge. There was nothing illegal about it. You couldn’t wantonly kill a slave but just about anything else up to that point is perfectly legitimate, all in the name of maintaining slave discipline that is seen as absolutely essential to the institution of slavery if it was to survive.
And of course I knew this was what I was now facing. Not that I showed it, of course. Slaves are expected to be stoical to all demands made of them, as well, of course, as instantly obedient to them.
Naturally, he had a huge limousine. Not a Rolls-Royce or even a Bentley but one of those really enormous American vehicles that look almost like a small coach. His was a Cadillac and he had had it adapted for his special use. In its normal configuration, it had the usual driving compartment holding the driver and one passenger in the front, and behind it, a large, spacious area with a forward-facing rear seat and a similar one facing it with a large open area between them.
If he wanted it in office mode, a table could emerge in that open area with its own inbuilt up-to-date IT equipment by which he could communicate with any of his underlings.
But it had another mode again: the rear seat was constructed in such a way that the two side components folded back into themselves, leaving a large single seat for him and this is the way he wanted it for his journey from the SSC to his huge estate in Toorak, which is known as Melbourne’s premier suburb.
It is not a long journey from the location of the SSC in North Melbourne to his house, normally taking perhaps twenty minutes to half an hour. Of course, he could have used the matter transporter and had us there within seconds but that wasn’t his style. He liked to ride around in his enormous limousine showing off his power and wealth to all and sundry.
Most people did indeed use a matter transporter booth to move from place to place. It is very cheap, about the cost of making a local call on your telephone and just about instantaneous and when it was invented about twenty years ago, it took the world by storm; buses and trams disappeared almost overnight as did the suburban railway system. Country trains have been retained because people have a love of train travel for pleasure trips and rail holidays. Airliners and airfreight aeroplanes also became obsolete although cruise liners became even more popular than before.
It was a brilliant concept, especially as every liner had at least one matter transporter on board and so passengers such as executives, politicians or even an ordinary person who suddenly received news of an emergency at home could now get home, or to the office in an instant, fix the problem and be back on board as soon as the problem was fixed.
Anyway, on this first journey of mine with him, he led the way out to his limo and while his driver held the rear door open for him, he got in and prepared to sit himself down in solitary splendour on the now single back seat in the middle at the rear and while the chauffeur ushered me in to follow Haddon, I stared at what he was doing with near terror.
Yes, you would be right if you assumed he was removing his trousers and underpants which he handed to the driver and then sat himself right down on the plush leather. The driver now pushed me inside the cab and bade me sit myself down on the now near vertical monster that was his cock, quivering and straining in his lust for my body even before the driver had closed the door on us. The driver had handed his boss a small tube of lubricant but still I half-squatted there, facing him as he stared up at my body and face with triumph – and that was the moment that I began to wonder at my education results as notified by the computer driving the exam booth in which I sat.
As I said earlier. I had never failed an exam before. I didn’t ever achieve good grades but I always passed with a fair margin. And yet this time – the crucial exam – I had failed convincingly. Was it possible for people to tamper with the machine or its output? We were always told it was foolproof and while I didn’t challenge the results (and neither did my parents, I later discovered) that was because we were all brainwashed into believing in its infallibility.
But that look of triumph gave me a hint that somehow he had paid off someone responsible for the machine so that it failed me. It was possible to check its results. You could obtain a printout of the questions and your answers and have them checked manually but of course I was now a slave and had no means of investigating things and I assumed my parents simply accepted the results, knowing of my very ordinary marks in previous years and assuming I had just reached my level of incompetence called the Peter Principle and probably didn’t even consider investigating the results.
As I said, he stared up at me in triumph and harshly ordered me to lower my body, now in a squatting position with my feet spread on either side of his thighs on the limo’s rear seat.
The driver had ordered me to assume the Position of Inspection as soon as he had so positioned me and by that he meant for me to raise my hands up behind my neck with my middle fingertips just touching and to pull my elbows as far back as I could get them. This provided him with a good view of my biceps, shoulder, chest and belly muscles as well as my thighs, now quivering from the strain of maintaining a half-squat over his now naked thighs.
Even with only his thighs showing, I could see this man was well-built and his muscles highly athletic and I shuddered once more as I thought of the pain I was about to feel as I lowered my anus right down onto that quivering, very large and solid penile organ.
“Get your arse down onto it, boy,” he snarled but his eyes still glittered in lust as they raked up and down my so naked (and now nude as well from being depilated of all facial and body hair) anatomy.
I wasn’t wrong. It did indeed hurt like hell as his huge member now stretched my anus wider than it had ever has been before but to make things even worse, he now reached out and felt and fondled my muscles while his previously grim expression softened to one of pleasure as I finally felt my buttocks seating themselves on the upper reaches of his thighs.
I knew better than to moan or to protest in any way at all. What he was doing to me was perfectly legitimate and if I resisted he would be quite within his rights to cane or otherwise physically punish me for disobedience.
I was required to put as good a face on it as I could manage and even that he might judge was insufficient and as I knew him by reputation to be one of the most brutal and sadistic owners of male slaves in Melbourne, I knew I had to do better and actually managed to smile down at him as I now started to jerk my body up and down on his cock.
He looked surprised at this and I knew I had done well. Mind you, it might have been exactly the wrong thing to do as his habit of training or whipping his slaves for the slightest wrongdoing, or even just to satisfy a passing whim, was also well-known and he might have felt annoyed that I had thwarted this desire in him.
As I said, the pain was intense at first but it wasn’t long before it started to recede quite markedly. I now know that the anal muscle has an extraordinary ability to adapt itself to the largest intruders, probably to cater for those poor individuals who suffer from constipation. Anyway, having made the decision to try and please him I now made a real effort to show off my muscles to the very best I was capable of.
My body lent itself to this kind of display although to that point in my life, I had never engaged in using it to titillate any of my girlfriends, let alone a man. I was fortunate enough to be born with a good natural physique that gave me an advantage in sports of all kinds which I really loved and without wishing to seem boastful have to report that I was pretty good at. And as I push myself to the limit in them all, that in turn enhanced my body even more.
I stress though that I have never aimed for muscle bulk, my build being that of a gymnast with extremely well-defined muscles that seem to naturally turn the heads of many female passers-by, and I have to admit, many males as well.
I am not homophobic and had many friends who are known homosexuals. As long as they didn’t come on to me I was very happy to have them as friends and they, knowing of my distaste for homosexual activity, never ever tried.
But now, Guy Haddon was doing exactly that and delighting in the sensation that the muscles of my shoulders, biceps, chest, belly and thighs invoked in him. I forced down the nausea that was welling up in my belly and managed to continue my smile and an apparent delight in what he was doing to me.
This soon had him puzzled for I knew my CV that is available to all buyers interested in a particular slave, proclaimed me to be exclusively heterosexual and that I had an aversion to homosexual activities between males.
“You like this, boy?” he asked softly.
“No, master, but I am your slave and that means that what you like, I like…”
“Hmmm. Well carry on with it, I like your attitude.”
“Yes, master…”
Behind me, I could sense the driver stiffening and as I could make out his reflection in the glass of the rear window (and his front mirror), I noted an expression of shock at his employer’s words and it occurred to me that I had stumbled on the right course of action with this so feared mobster. Perhaps if I could keep it up, I might survive my time as his body-slave (the polite term used for a male sex-slave) and during it, perhaps discover evidence the police could use to successfully prosecute him with a view to having him sentenced to life-slavery.

Author Information

a prolific BDSM writer who lives on the Gold Coast of Australia. His books have been delighting Olympia Press customers for many years and now he is one of Fiction4All's exclusive authors.


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