eight-minute video. Oh, yes. This one . . . this one was transfixing. Fighting his pleasure as surely as an opponent in the ring. Glaring daggers at the camera, his expression screaming, Fuck you, dirt, you don’t deserve to s e e me, let alone touch me. So apart and aloof and powerful . But, ah, he’d lost himself there for a moment, fallen beneath the onslaught. Hit the mat but then gotten right back up.
Until he couldn’t, of course. Until the pleasure was stronger than his will. Until he came up his belly and chest and chin and the shame and humiliation painted his face as surely as his cum painted his torso. But even then . . . even then, he was fierce. Beautiful.
Nikolai clicked the video closed, making note of his straining erection but paying it no other mind. He was a professional. Always in control. He’d satisfy his urges only when his work was done.
On to the second clip.
Six minutes, always the same. The same three implements for the same amount of time. Three minutes with the paddle.
Two with the cane. One with the TENS unit. Most slaves lasted three or four strikes from the paddle
before they broke down crying, and the cane had them begging for their lives or offering sexual favors to stop the pain. Many passed out on the first electric shock to the genitals. Not this one. He didn’t even acknowledge the paddle. The cane knocked noise from him—lovely noises, if you were into such cruelties, fighting free through iron will and clenched teeth. He suffered beautifully . So masculine. So strong. Even when screaming through the shocks, the man’s power was undeniable.
3 The poor bastard seemed perfect for his client’s needs.
Nikolai felt sorry for him already—to be denied the gift of culture, of devotion, of joy and peace in service. To be doomed to a life of suffering and misery, to—
Really, Nikolai, already thinking like you’ve bought the boy?
He shook his head, smiled to himself. He did have a whole auction to get through, after all. He might lose. This fighter alone would likely go cheaply—too much bother for most other trainers, too much risk, too little return. Breaking him would ruin everything about him that was beautiful and unique.
But he wouldn’t be sold alone, damn it all. To be auctioned with brother. See file M-36-526.
Nikolai sighed. He never trained two at once. His methods were boutique, not assembly-line. Still, maybe he could buy them both and sell the brother back to Madame at a discount, or on to another trainer. He clicked open the brother’s file.
Or maybe I’ll just keep him.
Gods, was he ever beautiful, even considering Nikolai’s exacting standards. The same blue eyes as his brother, the same brown-black hair. But slimmer, shorter, several years younger. And so sad. The curve of his mouth, soft and sensual, a mouth for reciting poetry with his head in his master’s lap. And a mind for it, too. A master’s degree in social work. A year into his Ph.D. in clinical psychology.
He’d be thoughtful and well-spoken. Delicate.
Expensive.
Then again, Nikolai never had gone for cheap stock.
When you trained only three or four slaves a year, you trained the most promising of the lots. And Madame clearly 4
saw this one’s promise too: he was the closing piece in the auction, the very last recruit to be sold.
And oh , look how he blushed and trembled and wept.
As exquisite in his fearful submission as his brother was in his anger. No, more so—though perhaps that was merely Nikolai’s own tastes at play. The boy orgasmed in under three minutes. Already obeyed every command.
Nikolai sighed again. He’d be lucky to acquire his fighter for less than seven figures with this perfect little brother tagging along.
5
chapter
one
at was done fighting.
M When they lead him out of the exam room, he went willingly, head down, mouth shut. Good dog. It sickened him how pliant he’d become, but he recognized the irrationality of that feeling. Coach Darryl had spent
Until he couldn’t, of course. Until the pleasure was stronger than his will. Until he came up his belly and chest and chin and the shame and humiliation painted his face as surely as his cum painted his torso. But even then . . . even then, he was fierce. Beautiful.
Nikolai clicked the video closed, making note of his straining erection but paying it no other mind. He was a professional. Always in control. He’d satisfy his urges only when his work was done.
On to the second clip.
Six minutes, always the same. The same three implements for the same amount of time. Three minutes with the paddle.
Two with the cane. One with the TENS unit. Most slaves lasted three or four strikes from the paddle
before they broke down crying, and the cane had them begging for their lives or offering sexual favors to stop the pain. Many passed out on the first electric shock to the genitals. Not this one. He didn’t even acknowledge the paddle. The cane knocked noise from him—lovely noises, if you were into such cruelties, fighting free through iron will and clenched teeth. He suffered beautifully . So masculine. So strong. Even when screaming through the shocks, the man’s power was undeniable.
3 The poor bastard seemed perfect for his client’s needs.
Nikolai felt sorry for him already—to be denied the gift of culture, of devotion, of joy and peace in service. To be doomed to a life of suffering and misery, to—
Really, Nikolai, already thinking like you’ve bought the boy?
He shook his head, smiled to himself. He did have a whole auction to get through, after all. He might lose. This fighter alone would likely go cheaply—too much bother for most other trainers, too much risk, too little return. Breaking him would ruin everything about him that was beautiful and unique.
But he wouldn’t be sold alone, damn it all. To be auctioned with brother. See file M-36-526.
Nikolai sighed. He never trained two at once. His methods were boutique, not assembly-line. Still, maybe he could buy them both and sell the brother back to Madame at a discount, or on to another trainer. He clicked open the brother’s file.
Or maybe I’ll just keep him.
Gods, was he ever beautiful, even considering Nikolai’s exacting standards. The same blue eyes as his brother, the same brown-black hair. But slimmer, shorter, several years younger. And so sad. The curve of his mouth, soft and sensual, a mouth for reciting poetry with his head in his master’s lap. And a mind for it, too. A master’s degree in social work. A year into his Ph.D. in clinical psychology.
He’d be thoughtful and well-spoken. Delicate.
Expensive.
Then again, Nikolai never had gone for cheap stock.
When you trained only three or four slaves a year, you trained the most promising of the lots. And Madame clearly 4
saw this one’s promise too: he was the closing piece in the auction, the very last recruit to be sold.
And oh , look how he blushed and trembled and wept.
As exquisite in his fearful submission as his brother was in his anger. No, more so—though perhaps that was merely Nikolai’s own tastes at play. The boy orgasmed in under three minutes. Already obeyed every command.
Nikolai sighed again. He’d be lucky to acquire his fighter for less than seven figures with this perfect little brother tagging along.
5
chapter
one
at was done fighting.
M When they lead him out of the exam room, he went willingly, head down, mouth shut. Good dog. It sickened him how pliant he’d become, but he recognized the irrationality of that feeling. Coach Darryl had spent
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