"I'm sure you'll find everything satisfactory," Draeger says, panting. The dealer is short, stout and consequently breathless, but Jared is not in the mood to break his stride. A thousand dollars might be nothing more than pocket change but he's never had to pay to view before.
"So it should be," Jared mutters.
"The cameras are on," Draeger huffs. "Constantly watched. All our slaves are perfectly broken, but if - "
Spinning around, Jared hisses, "You said he was new."
Draeger stumbles back a step. "Fresh as a daisy," he says. "Clean. Tested. You'd be the first owner, swear to God."
"Huh," Jared says. He's never forgotten the mess with the boy who turned out to be illegal. Draeger had cost him money. If it wasn't for the buzz after the public viewing for this one he wouldn't have laid a finger on the portfolio.
"See for yourself," Draeger says, and puts a hand to the door. Like all the doors along the corridor, it's clinically clean, anonymous and institutional. Were it not for the guards and the clipboards, he could be showing Jared a new build condo.
Then Draeger opens the door. The room's small, and white. White tiles, white ceiling. Artificial light sparkles on the chrome trolley, gleams from the white vinyl mattress and lends the naked slave on it a harsh and vivid distinction.
The slave sitting on the trolley. Jared snorts, and Draeger yelps. The next second, he belows "Kneel!" but all lot 607 does is look up. Slowly, under his eyelashes, as if he's too drugged to raise his head. The tattoo on his shoulder that defines his status is new, the skin reddened around the embossing of the ink. There are fresh bruises on his wrists and the chain on his ankle is heavier than normal, and tight. He's older than Jared's usual, but his skin is clear and his face stunning. It's the mouth and the eyes that make him something extraordinary, and Draeger, the old fraud, had played both up in the photographs. In the flesh, exposed under the lights, the shape of his mouth and the color of his eyes are just as distinctive as advertised.
"I don't believe it," Draeger groans, and motions at Jared with apologetic, excusing hands. "It's the new sedative, it leaves them - "
Lot 607 spits. He's got good aim. Saliva splatters on the shoulder of Draeger's jacket and beads in his hair.
"Really," Jared says slowly. He's not looking at Dreager. When he wipes the spittle from the back of his hand, it's the dealer, not the slave, who suppresses a flinch.
"This is how it's gonna be," Jared says. "You're gonna get him prepped for me exactly how I want. Flush the drugs out of him, because if I wanted a cow I'd buy one. I'll be back in two hours. And Draeger. I expect a discount for this."
He closes the door on both slave and dealer, and goes back to his office.
Draeger does what he's told. When Jared opens the door again, lot 607 is on his back on the trolley, thighs forced up and open and ankles padlocked into the stirrups. He's been depilated, not shaved, and the skin of his inner thighs and ass is pale, his denuded balls falling loose in their sac and his flaccid cock curled on his stomach. His hands are fisted, but his wrists are bolted to the bars and the House collar around his neck, utilitarian canvas, holds his head in place. Gleaming, the spider gag in his mouth is spread almost as far as it will go, and stretched around the metal his lips are soft, pink, almost delicate. He's not blindfolded. The hate in his narrowed eyes, glaring, is no less than Jared had hoped it would be. Draager's lied before, but lot 607 wasn't bred on a farm. There's a chance he really is what it says on the label.
By the side of the trolley, on a cabinet within reach of the stool, there's a tray of equipment Jared had sent over from work. It's all he needs. This isn't his first trip around the market.
On the sink in the corner is, as he expects, soap and disinfectant. As he learned as a child, he cleans his hands and forearms religiously, soaping every crevice and checking for cuts. There's nothing. He hadn't expected there to be. He's clean, and he's not taking any risks. Dried off, he reaches for the largest size packet of gloves, rips it open, and smooths the latex onto his hands. The seal at his wrists, popped, is sound. Only then does he turn around.
He checks the cameras, first, three cage-sealed rotary mounts and the red lights blinking on all of them. He doesn't need the reassurance. He will need the film.
Then Jared looks at lot 607.
He's managed to turn himself sideways on the trolley, Draeger's merchandise. His bare feet twist in the stirrups, his thighs strain, and his right arm is pushed further through the wrist cuff than his muscles should allow. His fingertips are six inches from the edge of the tray, and the tempered steel blades on it are shining in the overhead lights.
Casually, Jared walks forward. Rolls the cabinet two feet further from the trolley. The switches for the adjusters on back of the headboard, and as his fingers hover over them he looks down. Chin pulled up as far as it will go in the collar, eyes rolled back, lot 607 is watching his hands.
Jared presses the button. Whining, the stirrups hitch backwards, pulling the slave straight, straining his thighs and almost raising his ass from the bed. The motors are warranted for considerably more weight than what Jared estimates to be two hundred pounds of, mostly, muscle and bone, and although lot 607 writhes and kicks he ends up back exactly where Jared wants him, splayed, helpless, and exposed.
Long ago, Jared worked out his personal strategy on talking during inspections. Ever since the regrettable incident of the broken ribs, he's refused to pipe music into the examining rooms. He's never going to address a slave he doesn't own directly, it's not worth the hassle afterwards, but he's never liked working in isolation. He's learned to listen to the tone of every grunt and whimper, and he's learned to appreciate that the sound of his voice can break a vulnerable slave just as easily as his hands on a flogger.
He's not going to break this one. Not today. In silence, Jared wheels the stool into place at the foot of the bed, sits down, and pulls up the cabinet. He's going to be here a while. He might as well be comfortable.
Some buyers swear by the first fuck. It's the only way, they claim, to tell if a slave will respond or not, if they're worth the investment. Others prefer to delegate to a carefully trained team. Jared believes in touch. He's never liked screwing a hole messy and dripping with other people's come: done right, carefully judged, a slap to the face will tell him just as much as his dick. He doesn't have to play in public to find out if a slave will take the size of his fist or walk out of a playroom on their own two feet.
He's got a theory about the first time he touches a slave. With women, sometimes, he can be tender. With men, it's important to state the obvious.
The glass plug is clear, and so is the lube. Dreager hasn't lied, 607's asshole is tight, pale pink, untouched. Jared lines the plug up with care, and then slams it in hard with the palm of his hand.
Behind the gag, 607 grunts. His body arches off the bed, every muscle taut, balanced for a moment between his suspended feet and his shoulders. His hands fist, his toes curl, his head goes back and the tendons of his neck strain at the collar, exposed and vulnerable. The open spread of his thighs, every muscle outlined, is gorgeous: his abdominals clench, and around the narrow neck of the plug the ring of his ass tightens and spasms. There, the plug's no more than half an inch thick, but the skin around it is already pinking, and for a moment all Jared does is sit back and watch. He could be wrong, but he thinks, with a frisson of arousal that's not entirely welcome, that he's possibly the first person to breach that hole. It's unsurprising that, as he watches, the muscles of it pout and contract. Lot 607 is trying to force the plug out.
Jared lets him try, watching. It's a teardrop plug, heavily angled at the shoulder and an inch and a half wide at its thickest, and it's not going to shift, but the struggling, fluttering ring of muscles tells him exactly what that hole's going to feel like around the head of his dick and the span of his wrist.
He grins to himself, taps the plug base with his forefinger just to see 607's muscles quiver again, and pulls down the lights and the screen. Then he changes his gloves.
It's surprising how much can be told about a slave by the state of their teeth. It's also surprising how much some of them can object. This one grunts, moans, and rolls his head so strongly that the camera can't focus, and Jared has to resort to clipping weight chains to the gag straps and the rails of the bed. Even then, he has to use a tongue depressor and keep one hand twisted in 607's short cropped hair, grateful for the non-slip latex. But, exposed, Jared can inspect every single stain and chip to the enamel, And does. He takes his time, using the wireless camera to stream an image to the screen, fascinated by the stress ridges on 607's molars and the pattern of chips in his front incisors. Starvation scars in the enamel are unusual. He'd never see a pattern like that on a farm or House bred line, and it's further evidence Draeger's telling the truth when he says the slave's new. The chips suggest a violent lifestyle, which isn't a plus point, although the lack of stained and the pitted enamel suggests this one, unlike some, hasn't been using nicotine or dreamweed. His gums are a healthy pink, his breath is faintly metallic, which is almost undoubtedly the residue of the sedative, and his tongue is strong and flexible. That is a plus point, and Jared makes a mental note of the fact as he reaches for the first metal rod, one of the ones with half-inch balls on each end, and slides it down 607's tongue. Before he's used half of the length, the slave gags.
Disappointed, Jared tries again. This time he goes straight for the back of the throat and holds the ball steady as 607 coughs and wheezes, pulling so hard at the tied-down gag and Jared's fingers that he risks tearing his own mouth. His eyes water, tears squeezing out through his clenched eyelids and dampening the long line of his eyelashes, and he's gasping for breath, the muscles of his throat contracting in the camera's eye. He's not used to sucking cock, this slave, but it won't be the first time Jared's broken a gag reflex and he does like that tongue.
There's a latex dildo on the tray little more than the width of Jared's thumb. Just to check, he slides it in and holds it steady for a count of thirty, watching 607 writhe as he gasps for air he's not going to get until Jared allows. The pull of throat muscles on the plug is strong, tempting, but Jared's not in the market for a stolen blow job and when he's done he pulls the dildo out, unsnaps the chains on on the gag, and allows 607 to turn his face into the mattress and steady his breath. The slave's adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and sweat has dampened the hair at his temples and on the nape of his neck, but his eyes look alive with disgust as he glares up at Jared.
Jared does not allow himself to look back. It's nothing to do with him, what a slave thinks. Instead he runs his hands over the muscles of 607's shoulders and arms, flexing as he gasps for breath, and inspects the accuracy of the tattoo. Strong, tight muscles, smooth skin, and the code on his shoulder is neatly and clearly imprinted. No more than Jared would expect from Draeger's House tattooist, but it's still worth checking. There are a couple of scars on both arms, nothing he'd have had if a House doctor had seem him - unless they were intended - but still surprisingly indicative of both courage and recklessness. Something to bear in mind, if Jared puts in a bid. No track marks. The tan is unusual, and unusually uneven: 607's left arm is browner than his right to the elbow, and there's a white line on his wrist that suggests he's used to wearing some kind of tight fitting restraint. Just one.
Bracelet. Watch, even.
His hands are broad palmed, his fingers scarred over the knuckles and calloused in unexpected places: the inside of his middle and index fingers and the ball of his thumb. His nails are bitten short. Both hands are the same, Jared checks, and the pattern of musculature too is equal. Jared actually can't tell if 607 is right or left handed, which is interesting in itself. He knows better than to test the slave's grip, white-knuckled on the bars of the trolley, but he's already well informed that those hands are flexible, strong and wily. He's seen one of them reaching for a blade only the merest sliver of hope could have suggested was within reach.
607's shoulders are broad, and his chest satisfyingly well developed. There's a sparse pattern of hair that narrows elegantly down to his groin, and and by the paling shades on his stomach Jared suspects that, if he was ever allowed to show, his pubic hair would be tinged with blond. His nipples are small and pink, almost dimpled, but not so small they won't hold a piercing. Twisted hard between finger and thumb, reddened and peaked, they'll carry a clamp and and a chain.
Jared has both. In turn, he tugs each nipple out, thumbs the clamps open, and positions the pads. Lets the cloverleaf arched levers slide back into place, pinching tight. He's expecting a grunt: he gets nothing, and glances up only to see 607 staring at the ceiling. There's a curious absence of reaction in his face, almost disassociation. It's a response Jared's seen in slaves that have been pushed too far and too fast when they were young. He didn't expect to see it today. Dissatisfied, disappointed, he tweaks a clamp viciously, watching, and doesn't even get a flicker of eyelashes for his trouble. He doesn't bother with the weights. It's pointless. Pain is not going break a slave inured to the fear of it.
He flicks the clamps off, puts them tidily on the tray, and rolls the cabinet back to the base of the trolley. On tile, the rubber wheels are almost soundless, but the silver of the electrodes rattle as he rolls out the wires. Between 607's splayed legs in their stirrups, the electro stim box sags into the mattress.
Even lax, lot 607's cock is still heavy in his hand. It's a good length, not too long, and thick, lightly veined and smooth skinned. Cut, with the smooth scars that mean circumcision was done young and with care. His balls are neat, evenly rounded, and rolled in the palm of Jared's hand feel weighted and full. Tugged out, the skin of his scrotum is soft and even, with enough flex to accommodate a stretcher or a humbler. Given lot 607's predilection for escape, it's a precaution Jared is more than willing to take.
Around the neck of the plug, the skin of his hole is still flushed.
Jared reaches for the lubricant. He places four neat dabs on 607's inner thighs, and then he slicks up the cap. That, he takes his time fitting, careful and exact, lubing both cock slit and probe before sliding the toy into place, and the corona ring rolls down under his thumbs so slowly he could be fitting himself. Bruises are easily disguised. Burns are not, and Jared has an ingrained aversion to damaging merchandise he doesn't own. But the plastic coated wires of the cap fit neatly and firmly in place, and the soft pink skin of the slave's cock looks almost elegant, framed in black. More lubricant, and Jared fits the wires to the shaft, a circle of conductive silver that looks near alien. Then he takes each of the electrodes in turn and places them evenly on the skin of the 607's thighs.
When he leans back on the stool, it's to check that each wire runs untangled, that there are no loose connections and that each electrode is firmly in place. The battery, he knows, will be fully charged. The glance he makes up at 607's face is almost perfunctory, but it's satisfying to know that his care is appreciated. The slave's watching him back, and there's a frown line between his eyes that suggests this is new.
Jared swaps up his used gloves, and flicks the switch to on.
Most physical sexual stimulae is external. Electricity, used on skin, feels as if it's generated inside the the nerves, inescapable and relentless. With the control box in his hands, Jared can vary the pattern of the current as easily as the conductor of an orchestra: in fact, programmed into the control box, he has preset symphonies of wave patterns that he can play with a single flick of a switch. Reward, punishment, and, carefully devised, a unpredictable pattern of electrical pulses that can keep a slave on edge for hours and never let them come.
This time, he'll do more than just flick a switch. He rolls the dial on all six electrodes to a low, even current that will feel like nothing more than a deep-seated vibration under the slave's skin, and watches what happens. 607's thighs twitch, expected. The skin of his belly shivers and tightens as he breaths through the sensation, and his cock, helplessly and reluctantly hardening, rolls a little as it fills. Jared lets the current ride, lets the slave get used to the feel of it, and, careful to avoid the electrodes, runs his hands over the slave's feet. He's checking for sensitivity, running his thumbs lightly over the tender skin of the inner arch of lot 607's feet, and when the slave jerks in the stirrups and his toes curl Jared smiles.
Then he rolls 607's ankles, taps the reflexes at his knees and checks the muscles of his thighs. It's almost perfunctory. He's seen the film from the gym.
When he's done, he checks the electrodes again, careful and exact. He's left the current running, and it's done what he wanted. 607's cock is heavy and full, flushed with blood, the rise of the corona flared over the black ring of the cap and the probe still buried in the mouth of his slit. His thighs are starting to twitch rhythmically, and as Jared reaches out for the box 607's left leg jerks in the stirrups, an instinctive flight response that makes Jared smile.
He turns the knob to the right. Immediate and thrilling, 607 jerks and shivers, his cock twitching on his belly, his hips rolling on the mattress. Behind the gag, his breath hitches. When he moves, the fluid stretch of his muscles, clenching and releasing, is an elegant dance of both pain and pleasure. Jared likes it. He plays with the low-level current for a while, rolling the switch up and down and watching the response, the way 607 closes his eyes and turns his head as far as the collar allows, the clench of his fists and the violent pull of his wrists at the straps, the way his shoulders bunch uselessly and his cock jerks with each pulse. Now, there's not just lube gleaming around the probe, but pre-come, a reluctant dribble forced past the plastic.
Flicked high for no more than a second, electricity galvanizes every muscle in 607's body. His hips jerk up from the mattress, his knees do their best to jackknife, his thighs try to close around the electrodes. Ungagged, he'd probably be screaming, but the noise that comes from behind the gag is a wail that cuts off too soon. But his cock pulses and quivers, so hard he'd probably have come if the cap wasn't in place, and his balls are drawn up to his skin.
Jared flicks the switch again, just to hear that noise. He likes the depth of it, low and desperate, dragged out from 607's belly and helplessly given up.
Then he switches off the current. He could have made the slave come, with the box in his hands and the current controlled by his fingers, but at this point he doesn't need to know if 607 will spurt or dribble. With the toys at his disposal, if the way 607 ejaculates naturally isn't to his liking, he can force the response he wants.
But by the way pre-come bubbles up the around the tip of the probe as he draws it out, 607 will come hard and fast. It's a response worth noting.
Jared's careful with his toys. He wipes off the disconnected electrodes, coils them carefully, and stacks both box and wires carefully back on the tray. Lot 607 he leaves sweaty and stained, a gratifying physical reminder of the response he's forced, and although the slave's cock has softened a little it's still taut on his belly. Rolled under Jared's palm, hard, the heat of it soaks through the latex of his gloves.
Turned away, 607's eyes are clenched closed, but the corners of his eyes are damp and he's swallowing convulsively. Some slaves relax into pleasure. This one fought it, hard, and for Jared that makes lot 607 interesting in a way no true submissive will ever be. It's a major plus point.
Again, careful, he changes his gloves and reaches for the plug. It's seated firmly in place, it's meant to be, but the way he has to wriggle the glass out through the clenched muscle is unexpectedly difficult. The lube hasn't dried up. It's the convulsive clench of the slave's muscles that hold the plug in, and Jared's pleasantly intrigued by just how tight and strong the slave's ass will be. When he pushes his thumb at the crinkled skin and muscle of the slave's asshole, plug wiped off and sitting back on the tray, there's little more give to it than there was before the stretch of the toy. Investigating, he pushes harder, pops his thumb through the ring, and the heat inside is surprisingly intense. For a moment, he closes his eyes, and imagines the clench of that ass on his fist.
Not today. He tugs his thumb out, and reaches for the lubricant. There's a wide-nozzled, sterile syringe on the tray, and Jared fills it with care, tapping at the tube to make sure the liquid has settled. Then he slides the nozzle into the slave's hole and depresses the plunger. He hasn't bothered to warm the lubricant, it'll heat up soon enough, but he can see the slave shiver as the last liquid pushes out of the syringe and into his ass. There's more than enough in there to cope with the speculum, enough for Draeger to be wiping it up for the next couple of days, and it's a satisfying thought that whoever is next in line will be well aware Jared's been there first.
There's an awkward twinge to that thought. An odd irritation at the idea of other buyer's leavings, other buyer's hands. It's not a thought Jared's used to having, and, uneasy, he rolls it in his mind for a second. He has nothing more than a professional duty of care for a slave he doesn't own, and it's dangerously sentimental to think otherwise. Expensive, too. Emotional attachment to something which cannot reciprocate is an error of judgment Jared's only made once.
On the tray he's got three different speculums sitting, sterilized and pristine. The one he picks is the simplest, two angled, extended D ring bars and, right-angled, the ratcheted handles to force them apart. Extravagantly lubricated, the thing will still take more than a small degree of force to insert. Jared leans forward, speculum in his right hand, and gets a warning grip on the 607's balls with his left. His elbow jars against the slave's thigh, skin on skin, unexpectedly and shockingly warm. Glancing up is not something he meant to do, an unscripted reaction, but lot 607 is still staring at the ceiling.
Jared ducks his head, sets the narrow edge of the speculum to 607's ass, and starts to push. He has to force the thing inside, feeling his way, and when the D ring bars are fully seated he lets out a sigh he hadn't realized he was going to make. True resistance, scar tissue, and he would have had to stop.
When he starts to ratchet the bars apart, 607 grunts. He's not stupid enough to resist, but not experienced enough to relax the muscle: Jared goes slow, not risking tearing, waiting patiently for the first bright red glimpses of skin. It's an odd feeling, a profound, purely physical intimacy. The slave himself probably doesn't know what he looks like, his ass forced open at Jared's whim, but Jared does. This first time, he's not as demanding as he would be at home, widening the bars by no more than an inch and a half. It's no wider than the plug he'd had in, but there's something about the way that, with the speculum, Jared can actually see inside a slave's body that he finds utterly intriguing. Obscenely red, utterly vulnerable, the flesh quivers around the bars as the muscles contract in useless, instinctive protest. Both metal and flesh glisten with lubricant, but when Jared reaches for another balled rod he lubes that too.
The first touches are tentative, investigatory. Every slave has different reactions, a different level of sensitivity: what provokes a response in one will not work on another. Jared, hunched down and concentrating, strokes the ball of the rod against flesh in tiny, light increments. For the first time, he gets a consistent, vocal response, and despite the precautionary confining hand 607 starts to move his hips, a jerked, instinctive flinch stifled almost as soon as it happens. By the slow, deep breaths he's taking, lot 607 is controlling a panic reaction.
That's interesting, too.
Jared angles the ball against the upper wall of the 607's ass. He's searching, now, short, harder strokes that press into the yielding flesh, and he knows he's found what he's looking for when the feel of it is suddenly more resistant under the metal, still spongy, but an entirely different texture. He pushes, hard, and under him 607 yelps behind the gag. He can't help the snap of his hips or the way his muscles tightened, and unseen, the bolts on his wrist straps rattle against the metal bars of the trolley.
Jared swops up. The metal rod he's using now is thicker, curved, and the ball on it heavy gage steel, counter-weighted and easy to use. He'd have had to ease it in without the speculum, but forced open, 607 takes the ball with ease. That, too, he angles up, rolls against the same spot, and gets what has to be a muffled, furious curse. Under his wrist, 607's cock twitches.
He leans back, and plays. It's for his own pleasure, this unwilling, forced response, and every roll of the toy provokes another angry, distorted phrase, another twitch of 607's cock, another moment when his body shivers and relaxes. By the time he's done, lot 607's cock is leaking a steady dribble of come onto his belly, and he's shaking.
With care, Jared slides out the rod and puts it aside. Reddened and sore, the muscles at the mouth of 607's asshole are still trying to contract, and before he unscrews the speculum Jared rubs his thumb around the distorted ring, stretching it further with the roll of his thumb. There's enough flex left there for him to know that the hole will take his fist.
He's smiling, as he levers the speculum closed and pulls it out. Gently. Puts it down on the tray and looks up.
Jared's made a mess of lot 607. The slave's face is pale, tear stained, although Jared suspects the tears are anger and not pain. His wrists are imprinted with the pattern of the cuffs, and blood bruises mar his palms where his fingernails have bitten into skin. Lubricant, tacky and scaling, is drying on his thighs and his half-limp cock, and his belly is laced with come. Used, sore, his asshole is too stretched to stop lubricant leaking down onto the mattress and pooling under his ass.
It's going to take Draeger hours to clean him up. The auction's tomorrow.
Jared smiles. He stands up, and rolls both cabinet and stool to the side of the room. Strips off his gloves, discarding them into the trash can that sits by the door, and washes his hands thoroughly all over again.
Behind the gag, he could have sworn, at the end, 607 was calling someone's name. Sam? Samuel?
It's not important. Whoever they were, the slave won't see them again.
When he walks out of the door Draeger's waiting for him. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to, Draeger will have been watching the cameras.
me in," Jared says.