Julian Ch 01

My name is Julian Butler. I'm eighteen years old, and after years of ballet training, I have a very desirable body. I have dancer's legs, flat abs, a slender waist, and my shoulders and arms are blessed with the sort of lean, solid muscle that will allow me to catch ballerinas when they leap into your arms, and not drop them.

Although, I suppose my story begins back even before my ballet training began. My story begins back before I was even born.

You see, it was back in 2003 that slavery became legal again in this country. And my story is about me becoming a slave.

It was in the year 2003 that Congressman Mark Foley first proposed the idea of a federal agency that was soon given the name, The Office of Patriotic Service.

The idea was that young men and women could volunteer to become the sexual playthings of Senators, Congressmen, presidents or other elected leaders. Of course, very few people volunteered, so, they introduced a draft. Healthy, attractive Americans between the ages of eighteen and twenty-six were ordered to report to the OPS for indoctrination. If they refused to show up, local police would show up and force them to show up at the OPS offices against their will.

There'd been a lot of Republican legislators that got into trouble because of sex scandals and secret affairs. The idea was that if there was a federal agency that catered to the sick embarrassing sexual desires of our legislators quietly and discreetly, there wouldn't be any more sex scandals.

So, the taxpayers ended up funding the kinky sex drives of dirty old men. And some cruel, sadistic women as well.

At the time, it made sense. Back in 2003, there was a huge patriotic fervor. There was a huge thing where they made it sound like this program was super-patriotic and anyone who opposed it hated America. Bill O'Reilly and Ann Coulter went on TV and somehow made it sound like if you didn't support the OPS, you were a terrorist.

Anyway, they've expanded the program since then. Now, all kinds of important and powerful people use the OPS to indulge in their sexual fantasies. Judges, governors, mayors, ambassadors, diplomats, military leaders. Also, I think journalists sometimes get to take advantage of the sex slaves. Although, that's not official policy, that's just something the OPS does to keep the support of American Mainstream Media.

Every year young men and women are ordered to report to OPS field offices and made to serve as a sex slave for a time period of anywhere between six months to four years.

I'd gotten a summons in the mail weeks ago, ordering me to appear at the OPS office in Miami.

On August the 4th my mother drove me to Miami. My mother wasn't thrilled about seeing me taken into custody and turned into a naked sex slave, but she didn't want me taking the trip to the OPS alone. She wanted there to be at least one friendly face in the room with me when I lost my freedom.

The lobby of the OPS looked like the lobby of any other well-funded government agency. But the attitude of the place changed once it was announced that I was there to be enslaved. At the reception desk my mother explained who I was and why I was there.

"This is Julian Butler. He's been sentenced to four years of slavery in your...institution. I'm his mother. Is there some sort of official paperwork or procedure I need to go through to turn him over to you?"

"Please sign here," the fashionable receptionist said. I was also given something to sign. I skimmed the official looking document before I signed it. I vaguely remember it saying something about waiving a multitude of my legal rights during the four-year period that I would be incarcerated.

I sighed heavily. I could go into this quietly, or I could resist violently, kicking and screaming the whole way. Either way, it wasn't going to be easy.

"You're being very calm and reasonable," the petite receptionist said as I handed back her pen. "You have no idea how much I appreciate that. It is so stressful when the people who are brought in scream, struggle and throw tantrums."

"I'm so glad my son didn't exasperate you," my mother said, with a whiff of sarcasm.

"If I struggled and resisted and made a fuss, would it have helped me in any way?" I asked.

"Not really," the receptionist admitted. "The security guards would have grabbed you and you'd have been forced to comply. One way or another, you'd still end up becoming a slave."

"That's why I didn't make a fuss," I explained. "It wouldn't have done me any good, so why bother?"

"You're doing really well for your first day," the receptionist said warmly. "I am so proud of you."

Then, she pulled out a cardboard box and said, "This is the part where I ask you to take your clothes off and place them in this box. For the next four years, you're not permitted to have clothing, jewelry or personal items of any kind."

I knew that this moment was coming, but somehow foreknowledge wasn't enough to prepare me for it emotionally. Sensations of dread and helplessness washed over me like a tidal wave.

I mean...in addition to the receptionist and my mother, there were security guards and middle-aged men and women in the lobby. Having my mom and a dozen strangers watch as I took off all my clothes was...disconcerting.

My shoes and socks went into the box first. Then I undid the snap on the front of my jeans and pulled down the zipper. My jeans were skintight, so pushing them down my hips was something of a struggle, but eventually I got them off and stuffed them in the box as well.

Then I reached for the front of my shirt and began undoing the buttons.

"Does everyone need to stare at me like that?" I asked as I finished undoing all the buttons and shrugged out of the shirt. Men and women stared fixedly at me as I continued to strip.

Stripping naked in front of an audience of fully clothed men and women was a humbling and degrading experience. The air was thrumming with dark sexual tension, and I felt more sexually objectified than I'd ever felt in my life. There was an endless ocean of prurient faces ogling my abs, my thighs, my chest, my ass, every part of my body and it felt as if a crowd of thousands was eagerly scrutinizing my naked body.

"You're a remarkably beautiful boy with an exceptional body," the receptionist explained calmly. "It only makes sense that everyone wants to get a good look at you."

I frowned at the well-dressed government employee and bit back a caustic remark. She acted as if being forced to exhibit your naked body in front of total strangers was a normal everyday experience.

When I was down to just my thong underwear, I stole a glance over at the aloof, elegant men and women on the other side of the lobby. They stared openly, and one of them produced a phone and used it to take a series of photos of my nearly naked body.

"I can't take my eyes off his slender waist and his marvelously toned buttocks," one of the well-dressed women said as she moved in closer and waited for me to get completely naked.

Being naked in front of a dozen strangers was a new experience for me. I felt my face heat up with the flush of embarrassment as strange eyes bored into me and waited for me to remove my last item of clothing.

I felt a sense of helplessness and humiliation, however, I knew what I had to do. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my thong and slid it down my legs.

When I was fully naked, I dropped my thong underwear into the box along with all my other clothes. I felt helpless and vulnerable as the receptionist and the respectably men and women in the lobby openly appraised my naked body; however, I also felt an inexplicable throb in my cock. A heady thrill went along with my sense of helplessness and vulnerability.

"I'll also need your watch and any jewelry you might have," the bright-eyed receptionist said, "Slaves aren't allowed to own any personal property, so you'll have to surrender anything you have and give it to me."

I sighed, removed my watch, and dropped that into the box. My only jewelry was my high school ring. I pulled that off and dumped it into the box as well.

While the perverts in the lobby evaluated my naked body, the receptionist took the box with all my clothes and sealed it with packing tape. She then took out a wide-tip magic marker and printed my name across the top of the box in very neat handwriting. She also wrote some additional information on the box, including the date I arrived and the date I was scheduled to be released.

The receptionist carried the box to a locked door, opened it with her keys and placed the cardboard box with all my possessions on a shelf inside the storage closet. I couldn't help but notice there were quite a few other very similar cardboard boxes already being stored in there. This led me to wonder how many other naked slaves were incarcerated in this building.

After I was fully naked, my mother hugged me. She seemed to know that it was time for us to part. Then two security guards approached.

The security officers were both female, both tall and imposing looking. I estimated that each one of them was six feet tall at least and they were both athletic looking. They both wore very sharp-looking black and gray uniforms. They were both slender in build and both had high cheekbones and oval faces. One might even have called them attractive if not for the severe and unkind expressions on both of their faces.

"Mister Butler, please turn away from me and place your hands behind the back of your neck," one of the uniformed security guards said. I obediently followed her orders. She took advantage of my obedience and handcuffed my wrists behind my back.

After I was naked and handcuffed the congenial bureaucrat at the desk turned to one of the security guards and said, "Andrew has been assigned as Julian's handler. If you could escort him to Andrew's office, I'm sure he'd like to get started molding this pretty boy into a trained OPS asset."

The guards each grabbed one of my arms and roughly 'escorted' me down the hall. They were needlessly rough, but when I complained that they were manhandling me, they ignored my complaints and continued to treat me like I was some sort of dangerous felon.

We left the lobby and headed through a plain, white door behind the receptionist's desk. Naked and handcuffed, I was taken down a long, stark hallway with doors on either side. The last door on the left had Andrew Chamberlain printed on it in bold, black lettering.

One of the guards knocked and a male voice bade her enter. Andrew's office was understated, with a plain desk, a computer, a printer, a fax machine, a phone, two filing cabinets and an office chair. The most impressive thing about the office was the man occupying it. He was tall, slender, graceful, and quite athletic looking. He had an oval-shaped face, high cheekbones and hair that was midnight black. He looked up from his computer screen, favored me with a wicked smile and said, "You must be Julian."

He stood up and walked over towards me. He was wearing a fashionable, black blazer, black dress pants and a white, button-down shirt blouse. Him standing so close and dressed so dapper made me feel even more naked than I had in the lobby.

"I've read your file," he informed me as she placed a hand on the flesh between my shoulder and my neck. "You're highly intelligent. Men and women of high intelligence are often proud and spirited. However, here pride and spirit will get in the way. Here, you'll be expected to be an obedient and submissive sex object. It's my job to break your spirit and strip you of your pride."

I tried and failed to suppress a groan. Four years of being under Andrew's thumb was going to feel like forty. It was going to be an agonizing ordeal to be his naked plaything. He pushed down on me and curtly ordered, "On your knees, Julian."

It was difficult getting down on my knees with my arms bound behind my back, but I did the best I could. It was awkward, but I somehow managed to get myself arranged on the ground kneeling without assistance.

Andrew looked down at me, seemed satisfied with my submissive kneeling stance, and continued.

"Now," he said, "I've been calling you by your name, because that's what you're used to, and it was easiest to process you that way. But for most of our personal interactions, you won't really need a name. 'Slave' is quite adequate and a good deal more accurate."

I flinched visibly at that pronouncement. My handler either didn't notice or didn't care. I squirmed, feeling the stainless-steel cuffs bite into my wrists as I fidgeted.

"I oversee a considerable number of slaves in this job and a key responsibility of mine is to mold them into having a proper slave mindset. This means treating you with abuse and contempt."

My head hung low at this. I already knew that I would be sexually abused and objectified while being incarcerated at the OPS facility, but somehow hearing Andrew explain it out loud made all so much more real and demoralizing.

"Of course, since we're stripping you of your arrogance and your dignity, one of the first things we'll want to do is remove all of this," Andrew announced.

Andrew Chamberlain squatted down and placed his hands on my inner thighs. He pushed my legs apart, putting my cock indecently on display, and then he grabbed my pubic hair. My pubic hair wasn't phenomenally long but it was plenty long enough for Andrew to grab a healthy handful.

Andrew pulled. I gasped. It felt like my pubes were about to be yanked out by their roots.

"Waxing is very painful," Andrew informed me. "It's cruel. However, that's not the only reason we do it. Pubic hair allows a man a certain degree of modesty and dignity, as it helps to obscure his genitals. By waxing your pubis bald, you'll be twice as naked and exposed. And that exposure will leave you feeling shamed and vulnerable. It's a good mindset for a sex slave to have, so we wax the pubes and anus of every slave who comes here, shortly after they arrive."

At Andrew's behest, the security guards dragged me out of his office, down the hall and into what looked like a doctor's examination room. My handcuffs were removed, but only so that I could be bound in a more convenient way to a device that somewhat resembled a gynecological examination chair.

I was ordered to sit and spread my arms and legs far apart. Leather straps were then buckled around my wrists and ankles. I struggled against the leather restraints, but they held me effortlessly in place, no matter how much I strained.

"Struggle all you like," Andrew said. "You'll never be able to break from those restraints. However, you look quite fetching when you make the attempt, so please continue to squirm, strain, and flex your little muscles. The more effort you expend, the sexier you look."

I panted and ceased my struggles. I went limp in my bonds and waited to see what would happen next. That's when a cute woman dressed in medical scrubs padded over to where I was bound.

"Hello Julian, my name is Allison," she said, congenially enough. She explained that she would be removing my pubic hair. She had a boyish haircut, kind eyes and a friendly smile, but still, she assured me, what she was about to do was going to hurt.

"Ripping hair out by the roots is never painless," Allison explained, "however, it'll take about a month before it begins to grow back, so this is something that doesn't need to be done that often. The convenience of only having to do it once a month is why I prefer waxing over shaving."

Allison made an adjustment to the bondage device that held me and suddenly something padded pressed at the small of my back. After a series of clicks, it arched my back so that my torso was above my head, ankles, and wrists.

It was awkward and disconcerting for me. It meant that my naked cock and balls were thrust up and obscenely on display. My legs were forced wide open, and my genitals and anus were as exposed as much as anatomically possible.

Allison stood between my widespread legs and smoothed melted wax into my pubes, then waited for it to harden. My legs were spread pornographically wide, and my cock was indecently on display. I felt helpless and exposed, and I began to chew nervously on my lower lip as the wax cooled.

Then there was an explosion of pain as the lovely charming young woman roughly yanked dozens of pubic hairs out of the delicate just above my penis.

"Aaaaahhhhh!"

I screamed in inarticulate pain as Allison held up a clump of wax with a bundle of my pubes embedded in it.

Allison was professional and methodical. She ripped out one patch of pubic hair after another until all that was left were a few delicate hairs near my perineum. She used tweezers to pluck those out.

My pubis was left completely smooth and bare, leaving my cock and scrotum shamelessly exposed and on display for Allison, Andrew or anyone else who cared to look.

Andrew, Allison, and the security guards all had an excellent view of my naked body as my pubic area was waxed and tweezed and denuded. My feelings of helplessness increased as Allison did her work, and I felt a throbbing in my cock as I embraced those feelings of helplessness and exposure.

After Allison informed me that my pubes were completely bald, I assumed that I would be released from my restraints, but instead, Allison pulled out a tube of some sort of medicinal cream and began to rub it into the shaft of my exposed cock.

"Aaahhh,"

I gasped and tried to close my legs together. After my pubic hairs had been ripped out of the shaft of my cock, that whole area was sensitive and even a gentle touch hurt.

"Sorry," Allion said apologetically, "but I have to rub this in after waxing. In the short term it hurts, but in the long term, this will keep your skin soft, smooth, and healthy."

I whimpered as Allison rubbed the gel into the delicate flesh of my anus, my scrotum, my cock and the surrounding areas. At first, it was intensely painful, but as she continued to rub it in, it felt phenomenally good. Of course, I wasn't about to admit that.

My cock, balls and anus were completely smooth and bare, leaving my now hard cock shamelessly exposed and on display for anyone who cared to look. With my back arched, my pelvis raised up, my pubic hair gone, and my legs spread pornographically wide, my poor, erect cock was shamelessly on display like never before. The devious minds that designed this procedure deliberately planned it out to steal a man's dignity and leave him feeling utterly exposed and humiliated.

With the requisite amount of medicinal cream rubbed into my abused genitals, Allison placed her hands on my chest. She rubbed her fingers up and down my toned upper body, then she trapped my nipples between her thumbs and index fingers. When she pinched them, I gasped.

"His pain tolerance seems quite low," she remarked.

"We'll have to do something about that," Andrew replied. "Most of the clients enjoy punishing the slaves. We can't have him passing out the first time he's whipped."

"Whipped? I'm not really going to be whipped, am I?"

"Not at first," Andrew explained calmly. "We'll start you off with something mild like spanking and pegging before we work up to inflicting the more severe punishments on you."

"Pegging?" I asked. "What's pegging?"

Allison placed a hand on my thigh and explained, "Pegging is when a woman greases up a dildo and forces it into your ass and thrusts it into you again and again and again."

"It's basically a form of rape." Andrew said. "I find it's extremely helpful to rape new slaves. It helps to strip them of their pride, and their dignity. It makes it easier for them to embrace the proper mindset for becoming a slave."

"I have all the requisite equipment here in this room," Allison commented. "I could peg him right now. It will only take a few minutes."