Basic training in the Air Force Reserves was a piece of cake compared to the four days of hell Ib subjected me to. Ib sat in the most comfortable chair I'd ever seen as I stood in front of him-with my hands locked in cuffs lashed together behind my back, a red ball gag firmly housed in my mouth as if it had just signed a year's lease, and a fucking spreader bar attached to my feet. Ib's feet, of course, were bare-and I, his slave, was totally strip-stark naked.

Ib lectured me with his simple rules-first, I would be able to speak-but only when spoken to. Second, I would be able to walk without the spreader bar, third, my hands would be freed, fourth, I must obey every order or direction he or any of his dozen or so friends give me.

"Do you agree to these simple rules?"

I nodded, as Ib removed the spreader bar, then the handcuffs, and finally that God damn mother fucking ball gag-which I had chewed half to death.

Ib pressed the top of my head forcing me to the floor. "You know what to do now," he said, as he sat and wriggled his toes.

I sucked-devouring toe after toe after toe, in heaven, in peace, in a rapturous new world when SLAP, he began slapping my face over and over, 5 times, 10 times, 20 times, 50, I lost count then he took me by my ear again to the corner.

"You nibbled instead of sucking, boy! And boys who do not follow directions are punished."

He left me there-I have no idea how long-it seemed like hours but was probably only minutes. And I cried, no I have to honest, I sobbed, realizing my clothes were somewhere nearby-probably where I had shed them-next to my sneakers and my wallet with my Traveler's Checks and two or three hundred dollars in Moroccan money-and all I had to do was turn away, slowly, quietly walk to my clothes, slip them on, and walk or run to the door, head down the staircase (avoiding that God-awful elevator from hell that probably consumed most tourists' entire vacation) and head out the door, but no. God damn it to hell, no. I stayed and when Ib returned he twisted me around and gave me the most joyous pleasure gut-pleasing kisses I had ever received.

"Billy Boy, I am proud of you-I just wish I could keep you here in Marrakech with me as my protegee or assistant or lover or wife but I already sold you to a dealer in the United States-he has dozens of other slaves and by all intents and purposes he seems to be an honorable, God-fearing, kind man-but he takes no crap. A slave who disobeys too often is no longer chastised or punished, he merely has his nuts snipped off and a few days later the slave carries them in a box to the dog food company."

I nearly tossed my cookies as I looked at him plaintively but was well trained and honorable enough to remember Ib's rules so I spoke softly, "Sir, may I speak?"

And he hugged me and kissed me and whispered, "Yes good boy, you may speak."

"Sir, I have funds at home, may I buy my freedom. I'm unemployed now but do have savings-how much would it cost to buy my freedom?"

Ib took ages to reply and paced the room quietly, slowly, painstakingly until he finally returned and asked, "Billy Boy, do you have enough cash to buy this hotel and the rest of the buildings on this block?"

My eyes opened wide. My mouth went dry. My 7 inch dick that Ib had masturbated until my nuts were dry and my dick shrank to about half size weas locked in chastity hours before, throbbed against the steel cage and struggled to escape. "No, sir. The most I could dig up might be a hundred thousand." I gulped in the realization that this line of question was mute, there was no way I could buy my way out of slavery. "Sir, may I ask another question?"

Ib paused for what seemed like an hour, "Yes boy but it had better be important-you are using up your training time which means no meals for you today and our lessons will carry on, more than likely, until well past midnight-and slaves must be awake no later than sunrise. And… even though you have a few hundred thousand now, you do realize that by owning YOU I own everything you once owned-my protégé has already emptied your bank accounts and taken title to your condo in the USA and your car-he told me your net worth was $143,000 because of your inheritance from your late grandparents. . .and all of that is mine now."

"Sir, how long will I be a slave before he tires of me or kills me or sells me or frees me?"

Ib sat me on his knee and rubbed my thigh and looked deep into my emerald-green eyes, "Boys are never let go-slavery is forever-your new owner, Marlon Brooks, is 54 years old and more than likely will sell you in a few years to a younger master who in turn will sell you to another and so on-for the next-" he paused, "You are 28 according to your passport-which shall be delivered to Mr. Brooks when you are presented to him in your crate, but most castrated slaves live well into their 70s, slaves with tiny boy penises are most prized, however, especially if they are as witty and mailable and trainable as you and those boys become toys and playthings and entertainment for their new owners and friends-but those boys do not last long, some are sold to-well, let's just say it's a horrible but quick fierce fiery death performed by some of my African and Arabic proteges-their religions despite homosexuals especially feminine ones so they are burned on slowly heating grills, naked, often impaled up their asses as crowds of masturbating Arabs and Africans hoot and holler at the pain and misery they cause. Hopefully, if you are a good boy, you will never be shipped to Arabia."

I started sobbing, glancing over the room for my shoes and clothes and wallet, but they were all gone-there was no escape. I was doomed, I would be roasted alive or tortured or slapped and fucked and turned into something I never considered as a possibly-a naked slave servicing a real man with his real friends until the day I died. So, I smiled and thought, well at least I decided I was a bottom-no one forced me to be that or even think that way-although I didn't think of slavery, I can adapt-and I can be the best slave there ever was-and I looked at my master, Ib, and asked once again, "Sir may I ask a final question?"

"Yes, boy."

"Can you spare no quarter when you train me-teach me to be a real slave and to love it and to love my master and learn to obey and be a Peter Pan ageless boy for the rest of my life?"

Ib put me over his knee and spanked the hell out of my ass with his hand, then a wooden spoon, then a bathbrush, then a belt, then a strap, then a paddle, then again with his mighty Arabic African hand until I was sobbing and my ass was on fire and then the training began.

"First you need a long lesson in cock sucking," he said, "followed by an hour-long lesson in ass kissing, licking and sucking, then I need to build up your stamina and that means strict exercise at least 4 hours a day-but in your case I'll have you run naked in the desert for a few hours between 9 PM and "midnight-then a cold shower, a hard ass fucking and 5 hours of sleep before tomorrow.

The cock sucking and ass kissing and sucking were pretty much easy-although I did learn to be throat fucked by Ib's most hardened, rugged, cruel employees which Malik, whom I had met just a day ago, and two others-very young, very big-cocked, with big hands and a sense of cruelty I had never imagined. They were Jalal who said he was 18, stood 5'9, weighed 140, had dark brown hair, brown eyes, and an 8-inch cock and his twin brother Hamza who was the cruelest bastard I'd ever met. Once he was with those other two, Malik became the harshest, cruelest of them all-and I could almost picture him with a whip. All four men took turns breaking continuing to break my virgin ass in. Malik had opened it the day before and that was pleasure-now none of the men were pleasurable or kind or gentle-it seemed to be all about money now and I guessed each of them was going to get a share of the profits from my sale. Yes, this was the life had I had chosen-yes, I made a tragic mistake-but there was no way out-at least not for now, however I did know that once I was home in the good old U.S.A., I'd have police protection and a network that would rescue me. That hope was the only thing that kept me alive for the rest of the week-until that day I was dumped into a packing crate, which was nailed shut, hoisted onto a truck and then taken to the airport and flown me non-stop by private plane to the middle of fucking nowhere-which I later discovered was in Ramsy County, North Dakota-where the men were strong believers in ramming things up hot young smooth asses like mine. But I am getting ahead of the story. This was still Monday, never-fucking-ending Monday and I still had Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday for my basic training.

Two of the men went down to eat while Jalal and Malik continued "breaking me in" then Ib and Hamza relieved them and my ass and mouth became battering rams and the harder and firmer the men fucked and the more I screamed, the happier they were-but of course that was not the end of my day because at 10 PM I was tossed in the trunk of Malik's car and he and Ib drove me to the desert where I was told to start running as they followed shooting a pellet gun at my ass and laughing so gaily that I nearly collapsed. But then at midnight I was tossed back into the trunk and spent the night there only to await the coming of the next Day from Hell.

Those four days of living hell worsened each hour until Billy Sazan prayed for a comfortable night's sleep and a new life with Marlin Brooks in North Dakota-and Billy Boy was convinced that no boy could ever be flown from Africa to North Dakota in a box.

Or could he?


On to Chapter Four
A Deeper Journey from Purgatory to Hell
Back to Chapter Two
One Glorious Mistake After Another
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