Postquam coeperunt esse bilibres 2

Here's Part Two at last. Finally our Hero shows up.

back to index

Yeah, thought Dan as he stepped back to stand next to Roy and watch 
4711 going to town in 126's crotch: Just look at the poor fucker - a 
hundred and ninety solid pounds of pure butch, choice-grade slave 
meat, held down on a big cock and getting his rocks off for maybe the 
very last time in his miserable young life - where he's going, his 
sexual satisfaction won't be top priority - in fact, it won't even be 
on the list. Dan was almost going to miss the bastard - he'd put 
enough effort into making him what he was now.
The first time Dan had ever heard of Phil Bolton (that's what 126 had 
been called, back when he'd had a real name instead of just a number) 
had been when an old friend, and sometime comrade-in-arms in the 
great urban wilderness of North America, called from St. Louis in 
near panic. Ken Foster had known Phil for some time as a fellow 
topman, and they'd shared some scenes - eventually he'd given Phil a 
job in one of a chain of auto parts stores he owned. It hadn't worked 
out - not only did he suspect Phil of skimming from the store's 
receipts, but one night Phil got a little carried away with a kid 
he'd picked up and he'd hurt the kid pretty bad. Sure, the kid had 
expected to play rough, but Phil had gone way too far, trying to 
exorcise his own private demons on the kid's body.
Fortunately for Phil, the kid didn't go to the cops - but 
unfortunately, he turned out to be an ex-trick of Ken's, and that's 
where he ran after Phil dumped him. Ken was pissed off, to put it 
mildly. He called Phil up and told him to come over - then he 
confronted his employee with the evidence of his financial misdeeds. 
At first, Phil firmly denied everything, but when the case against 
him proved overwhelming, he tried to cajole Ken into giving him a 
second chance. Phil thought he'd almost succeeded in talking Ken into 
cutting him loose when the kid sneaked up silently behind Phil and 
clamped a chloroform-soaked rag over his nose and mouth.
It was three days later that Ken called Dan in desperation. He'd been 
keeping Phil on ice in his spare bedroom, bound, gagged and 
blindfolded; he and the kid had given Phil some of his own back, but 
it didn't really turn either one of them on - revenge wasn't all that 
it's cracked up to be. What was turning them on, though, was each 
other, and Phil was only in their way. Ken didn't have facilities for 
keeping Phil captive, but he was too civic-minded to turn somebody 
like him loose onto the streets - and he sure couldn't turn him over 
to the cops!
"Hey, Dan, ol' buddy! Look here, I happen to have got hold of this 
hot-looking stud asshole I need put out of circulation," was the way 
Ken explained it.
"For how long?" asked Dan.
"Permanently, please!" begged Ken.
Dan questioned Ken some more about the setup, asked him to hold on 
while he talked it over with Roy, and finally they offered to buy 
Phil for the $1500 that had been stolen - Ken would have been glad to 
pay them just to take Phil off his hands. So Dan made the ten-hour 
drive to St. Louis, had a cup of coffee and picked up the payload, 
then turned around and brought it back.
It took quite some doing to bottom Phil out all the way; he was aware 
of what they were trying to do to him and fought Dan and Roy through 
the entire process. He was a handsome devil, with a good body and a 
big dick, and he knew he was a pretty hot number - he was used to 
exploiting his sexy good looks to get his own way, but he soon 
learned that that ploy wouldn't work with these particular guys. Dan 
and Roy didn't give a shit about him sexually - as far as they were 
concerned, his body merely provided them a convenient means of 
controlling and training him.
They'd initiated Phil the same way they would any other slave: they 
strapped him down so all the others could shove their stiff cocks up 
his hole. Phil took his fucking like a man, but Dan suspected from 
his body language that it was his first time, and when the big slave 
was released the look of defiance and hate in his pain-reddened eyes 
confirmed that hunch.
Shaving the hair from his face and body and stenciling a number 
across his chest didn't do much to improve his attitude - he may have 
looked like a slave, and he had to work like one, for twelve hours a 
day out in the fields, seven days a week. But so long as he retained 
some sort of personal dignity, Dan and Roy knew he hadn't really been 
broken in his mind, where it really counted. However, they had 
patience and time on their side - eventually they'd strip him of that 
macho pride.
He didn't show them any insubordination, and seemed to obey readily, 
even when told to grab his ankles for a strapping, so Dan and Roy 
grew careless. About two months after his arrival, 126 made a break 
for it. Some three hours later, he was apprehended trying to steal 
some clothes to cover his nudity and returned under the unofficial 
local "Fugitive Slave Act".
Back on the farm, his wrists were lashed together and tied to a chain 
that hung down from the top of the punishment post so that his toes 
barely reached the ground. Roy whipped 126 savagely till he breached 
the recalcitrant slave's stoicism and made him yell out in pain. From 
then on, his ass was strapped every morning and after that, a 
polished wooden plug about the size and shape of a large cucumber was 
inserted deep into his rectum. One twenty-six wasn't used to having 
anything up his ass, of course, but he soon discovered that as he 
worked, the friction against his prostate gland would inexorably 
produce a rock-hard erection, and sometimes even an involuntary 
ejaculation.
Dan and Roy had hoped that the realization that not only his body but 
even his sexuality was no longer under his own control would make 126 
submit. It didn't work - he seemed to enjoy the enforced display of 
his aroused manhood, so Dan and Roy had to resort to stronger 
methods.
While Dan was strapping him one morning, Roy moved in between strokes 
and gave him an injection in the tail - 126 probably couldn't even 
feel it. The insertion of the plug made his cock rise to attention as 
usual, but to his dismay it subsided during the course of the 
morning. He stroked it surreptitiously, but was unable to produce any 
response at all. One twenty-six was suffering from the effects of the 
same substance that had been administered to Dave in prison - a drug 
that produced a virtual "chemical castration".
That proved to be the ticket - the next time Dan saw him, he didn't 
presume to speak, but looked at them piteously. "Do we have a problem 
here, 126?" asked Dan.
"What's wrong with my cock, sir?" asked 126, nearly sobbing.
Dan looked at him sharply. "What are you, 126?"
"I'm a - slave, sir," he conceded for the first time.
"Right. And whose property are you?"
"My masters' property, sir."
Grabbing 126's limp cock, Dan asked him, "And this?"
"It's my masters', sir."
"That's right," Dan told him, and left it at that.
From then on, 126's attitude was exemplary, and he was pathetically 
grateful when the drug wore off and he was again able to achieve an 
erection. Dan and Roy felt proud of what they had produced, and 
eventually, instead of offering him for sale, decided to keep 126 on 
as overseer.
Unfortunately for 126, when the 'Amir happened to catch sight of 126 
in one of Dan and Roy's videotapes, showing him working over a couple 
of slaves they were trying to sell, he offered them £5,500 worth of 
gold, safely stashed away in Berne, for possession of the overseer's 
body. They didn't really want to accept the bid - it would be 
difficult to find and train a replacement for 126 as overseer; but 
after all, it represented one hell of a lot more than what they'd 
paid Ken for him in the first place and then of course, they were 
businessmen.
"Time's up, 4711! Forty ninety-six, you're next."
*
In spite of what he'd told the slaves, Dan knew that the Arabs 
actually intended to permit 126 to retain his reproductive organs, 
for all the good they'd be to him. One twenty-six was to be a eunuch 
only in the sense that he'd serve as a personal attendant to the 
'Amir's wives; therefore, upon his arrival in al-Qurayn, for obvious 
reasons he would undergo a vasectomy. However, after his 
sterilization, 126 would be subjected to further surgery - a portion 
of the nerve that controls penile erection would be excised, so that 
the disability he had once suffered temporarily would become his 
permanent condition. While his sexual drives would remain unaffected, 
he would be unable to relieve them normally - and he would equally be 
incapable of satisfying his mistresses' desires for penetration.
In fact, Dan and Roy knew for certain of only one case in which the 
Arabs had physically deprived an American slave of his precious 
manhood. They had visited the tiny oil state on the Arabian Gulf some 
two years previously and had been afforded the rare privilege of 
spending a few unchaperoned hours in the 'Amir's secret harem of male 
sex slaves. The inmates, who numbered a couple dozen or so, of all 
races and sizes like some kind of exclusively masculine United 
Nations; had been gathered together for their inspection in a sunny 
courtyard; they were all naked and restrained only by lightweight 
chains that connected fetters around one ankle to rings set into the 
stone wall. Only four or five were eunuchs - most had been permitted 
to retain their male organs. The slaves on exhibition ranged from a 
tall blue-black-skinned Sudanese with ritual scars across his 
forehead, whose twelve-inch penis, fully proportionate to his height, 
flopped between his thighs like a fat brown sausage, unaccompanied by 
any vestige of testicles or scrotum - to a pair of delicate-looking 
Southeast Asians whose nearly hairless genitals were not much larger 
than those of prepubescent boys.
Among the slaves confined there was a young American who was even 
bigger than 551 - tall, mustached, and strikingly handsome, his 
athletic body superbly developed and covered with a coarse pelt of 
dark hair - except, shockingly, at his crotch where the deeply-tanned 
flesh was as bare and smooth as a child's - not a single hair 
remaining in the vacant triangle between his muscular, furry thighs 
to conceal the long livid scar where the proud male sex organs had 
once protruded. Reluctantly at first, he told his story to Dan and 
Roy: he was called al-Fahl - a cruelly ironic name in his case, for 
its meaning in Arabic is "the stallion" - , but he told them that his 
real name was Hank Cooper; he was from Texas and had driven truck and 
worked the oil rigs, even played some semi-pro football before his 
marriage started breaking up and money got hard to hold on to. He 
decided to sign up for a hitch in the oil fields of Saudi Arabia. He 
never made it to Saudi.
Hank had never exactly qualified for frequent flier discounts; he'd 
never even been overseas before - except to Mexico, and that doesn't 
count. He whiled away the long tedious hours between Dallas-Fort 
Worth and Dhahran playing flirtatious games with the blonde flight 
attendant, who seemed enjoy paying special attention to the big 
Texan. On the second day out, he awoke from a catnap and she greeted 
him with a morning cup of coffee, pointing out the window where he 
could see they were flying over a great empty desert. He grinned with 
anticipation at the new opportunities he could look forward to - but 
then he began to grow drowsy, and within a minute, he had lost 
consciousness.
He revived to find himself lying buck naked on a narrow bunk in a 
tiny bare cell. In the corner was a slop-bucket; at one end was a 
heavy steel door without a handle the inside. A small barred window 
was set eight feet high on the opposite wall; as soon as he had 
recovered his wits and the control of his limbs, Hank hoisted himself 
up by the bars and looked out. As far as he could see, there was 
nothing but utter, barren desolation - a few scrubby plants, blowing 
sand, and no sign of human activity. Despairing, he dropped to the 
floor and sat down heavily on the bunk.
Much later, after it had turned dark, the cell door was abruptly 
opened; standing there were three big tough-looking Arabs dressed in 
fatigues. The one in the middle, who seemed to be the man in charge, 
barked out an order in Arabic. Hank couldn't understand him, but he 
sure as hell couldn't possibly mistake the meaning of the 9mm Makarov 
PM that was aimed straight at the middle of his bare chest.
The other two guards came at him and cuffed his wrists behind his 
back, then they grabbed his arms and pulled him out of the cell, 
while the guy with the gun kept him covered. They marched him down a 
long series of corridors lined with metal doors until they came to a 
final heavily reinforced door. One of the guards spoke into a grille 
and the gate slid open with a mechanical reverberation. They entered 
a very different part of the building; here, everything was most 
luxurious, with carpeted floors, tiled porticoes, and woven hangings 
on the walls. Finally they brought him up before a huge wooden desk. 
Behind it sat a small middle-aged bearded man, wearing the 
traditional Arab clothing, the white dishdasha robe and the ghutra 
headdress.
The guards held Hank motionless as the little man silently surveyed 
up and down his big naked body, paying special attention to the heavy 
equipment that hung down from his then-hairy crotch. Hank opened his 
mouth to protest, but the guard with the gun motioned threateningly 
for silence.
After several long minutes of this silent, humiliating scrutiny, the 
man looked into Hank's eyes and said softly, "I deeply regret the 
unpleasant necessity of informing you of the unfortunate death of a 
certain Mr. Henry Clay Cooper, a citizen of the United States, in a 
traffic accident soon after his arrival in the kingdom of Saudi 
Arabia. The American Embassy staff has investigated the incident - 
although I greatly fear that their inquiry was not as thorough as it 
could perhaps have been - , and they have informed your family in the 
United States of your tragic demise; deplorably, your remains were 
rendered unrecoverable in the explosion of the vehicle."
Hank was dumbfounded, and the man smiled malevolently as he watched 
Hank try to take in this information. "So you see," the Arab 
continued, "no one knows you are here - you are no longer, by the 
way, in Saudi Arabia - and do not hope for rescue; there is no one 
able to help you. If you cooperate, and submit to the orders you are 
given, the remainder of your life will not be too unpleasant. If, 
however, you choose to resist, you will wish that you were in truth 
dead."
"You - you mean I'm a hostage?" Hank asked, his voice hoarse.
The Arab gave him a short, scornful laugh. "Are you an imbecile, 
then? As far as the outside world is aware, you no longer exist on 
this earth. No, my handsome but slow-witted friend, what you are now 
in fact is a - slave."
Before Hank could reply, the man dismissed him with a wave of his 
hand, and he could barely keep to his feet as the guards returned him 
to his cell. He lay wide awake all night, tossing and turning on the 
hard, narrow bunk, his mind entirely focused on that final, 
inconceivably appalling word.
*
At first, he told Dan, it hadn't been too bad for him, once he 
learned to resign himself to the fact that he had been stranded, 
maybe for ever, in the middle of the desert in an unknown foreign 
land, far from his loved ones and everything he had known. It took 
him quite a while to reach that state of mind and cease his 
resistance, but they locked him in his cell and deprived him of food 
- nevertheless he still refused to cooperate with them until he was 
forced to witness another slave being punished for disobedience. The 
poor devil's screams of agony echoed throughout the harem as two 
guards flogged his bare back into bloody tatters - Hank was given to 
understand that he could expect the same sort of discipline if he 
remained recalcitrant. The day he gave in to his captors, he was 
transferred to a roomier cell, permitted limited freedom of movement 
within the slaves' compound, and fed very well. They gave him access 
to exercise equipment in a sunny courtyard, and he spent hours 
working out, pumping iron and running in place, till he was in better 
physical shape than ever - the unavailability of liquor in that 
supposedly strict Islamic country didn't hurt him any, either. After 
several weeks they told him that he would have to start earning his 
keep - he'd be required to take part in what they called 
"performances." These turned out to consist of Hank's screwing girls 
in public several times a week - on stage in front of ranks of 
anonymous but vocally appreciative Arabs in a small darkened 
auditorium.
But first, the English-speaking boss man had insisted that Hank be 
circumcised in compliance with Muslim religious law - he wasn't 
exactly sure what "circumcision" meant, and when they told him it 
would mean cutting off his foreskin, he refused indignantly. He was 
informed that the operation was required - it would be performed on 
him anyway, by force, whether he agreed or not. So he acquiesced 
reluctantly and was taken to a well-equipped examining room where he 
was introduced to a smiling Arab, no more than five feet tall. He 
said in a barely comprehensible accent that his name was "al-Hakim," 
and explained that he was the doctor who would perform the surgery. 
He reassured Hank that there would be no pain and asked him to lie 
down on his back on a leather-covered table. He applied a topical 
anesthetic to the head of Hank's penis, and once it had taken effect, 
Hank could barely feel a thing as the superfluous flesh was swiftly 
sliced away from his big organ. Afterward, al-Hakim talked Hank into 
submitting to a vasectomy. He was told it was to be done in order to 
avoid any possible pregnancies, and was assured that it wouldn't 
affect his potency at all and could be reversed at any time.
It didn't take long for Hank to grow habituated to his new way of 
life, living in what to him was unimaginable luxury - being waited on 
hand and foot, his every whim catered to. He associated very little 
with the other harem slaves - in fact, in those days it never even 
occurred to him to think of himself as one of them, even though he 
knew full well he was confined to the same set of rooms they were, 
and that escape was impossible. He was young, and like many if not 
most young American men of his class, something of an exhibitionist; 
he had always thought of himself as quite some stud, anyhow, so he 
didn't mind the public display of his considerable sexual prowess at 
all - in fact, he rather enjoyed the notoriety.
"Way back then, I thought I was really living in fat city, man," Hank 
recalled. "I mean, the only work I had to do - if you want to call it 
'work' - was to fuck my brains out for about an hour every couple 
days. Shit, I never got so much pussy in my whole life before I came 
here - and I sure never dreamed in my worst nightmares what was gonna 
happen to me." After a few months of taking part in the sex 
spectacles, there was a significant change to the scenario. When he 
was led into the arena one evening, instead of a terrified virgin 
cringing on the bed, pleading in some incomprehensible language, 
there was a pale blond youth, a few years younger than Hank, and of 
course much smaller. Naked and tied down on his back with his legs 
pulled back to expose his bony white buttocks, he was screaming 
bloody murder in a thick Liverpool accent and threatening the 
onlookers with the wrath of the Royal Navy. What he was expected to 
do was all too clear to Hank, but he stalled until a muscular pair of 
the 'Amir's guards drew their side-arms and compelled him to plow his 
first man-ass.
After that day, Hank no longer enjoyed such special treatment as 
before. He was moved to a smaller, more austere cell, and he was 
handled more severely, being used like some kind of show stallion, 
required to fuck, and often to rape, both men and women in public, 
sticking his ten-inch cock into cunts and assholes as a bunch of 
Arabs looked on.
It turned out that the assurances that had been made to him had been, 
at the very least, somewhat disingenuous. One day he was led to the 
arena, but this time when he entered there was no victim waiting on a 
bed. Instead, in the middle of the floor was an ominous-looking bulky 
wooden contraption that looked something like a cross between a piece 
of garden furniture and an old-fashioned electric chair, except that 
it was devoid of electrodes or power connections. Hank stopped dead 
at the sight of the thing, but two of the guards seized him by the 
arms and hustled him over to the chair, forcing him to sit down in it 
almost before he knew what was happening to him.
The back of the chair sloped backwards like a recliner, and they 
secured him tightly to it with a couple of heavy leather straps at 
his waist and across his chest, under his armpits. They buckled his 
wrists to the armrests, and then the guards dropped to their knees 
and pulled up a pair of footrests that were connected to the seat of 
the wooden chair. They strapped Hank's ankles to these and then 
pulled them up and apart, spreading his legs out wide so his fat, 
recently-cut cock flopped half-swollen between his powerful thighs, 
his heavy balls dangling vulnerably below, the left one hanging 
lower. The guards moved away from him and Hank had a chance to see 
that the audience area was crowded before the stage lights were 
doused. They were replaced by two spots, one shining in his face, and 
the other focused on his genitals. Although Hank could no longer see 
them, the onlookers were unusually quiet as they gazed in fascination 
at his big muscular body, bound tightly and rendered completely 
defenseless. He, too, was made to contemplate it after his head was 
lifted up and a wooden block inserted behind his neck, forcing him to 
look down along his own helpless torso.
After several long minutes, a smallish Arab stepped up to Hank and 
smiled broadly at him. Hank remembered him well - it was the doctor, 
al-Hakim, who had sliced off his foreskin and tied off his tubes. 
This time, though, he remained silent - not bothering to reassure 
Hank, or to explain what was going on. Hank started to worry - a lot.
The little Arab moved in between Hank's outstretched legs and 
hunkered down. He smiled once again, looking up at Hank's face and 
began massaging his belly and the inside of his thighs, murmuring 
something softly in Arabic, as if he were trying to calm a skittish 
animal. If this treatment was supposed to relax Hank, it didn't work; 
it just made his cock stiffen up.
That didn't bother the "doctor" in the slightest. Once Hank's shaft 
had risen to its full ten inches, al-Hakim moved away so the audience 
could admire the display of the American slave's generous sexual 
endowment. The audience erupted with loud applause at the sight 
presented for their appreciation. Hank had never felt so mortified in 
all his twenty-four years - sure, he'd let them check out his big 
bone right there on the stage plenty of times, but then, he'd felt in 
control and been ready to demonstrate he knew what it was made for - 
this time, his equipment was merely being put on public exhibition.
Once the applause had subsided, the so-called doctor returned and 
took Hank's ball sac into his left hand, exploring with his long 
fingers and manipulating the swollen testicles within. When he was 
satisfied, he brought up a scalpel and quickly cut an incision into 
the right side of Hank's scrotum, extending from the base of his cock 
to the bottom of the pouch. He opened the incision, revealing the red 
oval gland within. Hank moaned, not so much from the pain but from 
the horror of seeing the very source of his manhood exposed to view. 
He was unable to avert his eyes as al-Hakim used a curved needle and 
a length of surgical gut to tie off the spermatic cord; then he took 
up the scalpel and irrevocably severed the organ from Hank's body.
Al-Hakim picked up the walnut-sized testicle from the stage floor 
where it had fallen and, smiling again contemptuously, held it up 
dripping before Hank's face, displaying to him what he had lost for 
ever. Hank promptly passed out.
When he came to, he had been released from the chair and the wound 
had been sutured and dressed. He was lying on a blanket in one of the 
corridors; a yard-long chain had been fastened around his ankle and 
bolted to the wall. He relieved himself into a metal bowl and he only 
ate when one of the other slaves remembered to feed him. Every day 
the smiling "doctor" came by to change the dressings; his touch made 
Hank's flesh creep.
After he had fully healed, a pair of guards released him, immediately 
loading his body with heavy chains. In that state, he was taken to 
the bearded man he had seen on his first day. Again the guards held 
him as the man examined his body, especially the place between his 
legs where his sole remaining nut weighted down the hairy bag.
"So, Mr. American Cowboy," he said at last, "I think you are no 
longer so much - how do you say it? - the macho stud." Hank reddened 
in shame. "You realize now, of course, that your body is our 
property. If it should no longer please us that you should continue 
to live, then. . . ." he snapped his fingers. "But for the time being 
you amuse us. Remove this slave from my presence!" he ordered the 
guards.