Date: Sun, 29 Apr 2007 21:40:13 +0100 From: firstname.lastname@example.org Subject: From Rugby Star to Team Slave As I stand looking at the team warming up, my mind takes me back to freedom. I used to play myself. I was on the verge of becoming a professional player and I often think, when the teams come out, that it could have been me. It could have been me that the girls swooned over, that the crowd cheered for. My body was honed to perfection -- still is -- and I had the speed and strength to be a top class rugby player. I had a trial lined up for the Saints and my coach told me I was a certainty to get in. All I needed to do was turn up on the Friday at 10am and a professional rugby contract was there, ready to be signed. If only I had kept quiet about it. If only I had not made it known to those around me. Maybe he would never have found out and I could have signed. They came for me on that Friday, at 9am. They told me I was under arrest for sexual abuse, for rape. I denied it of course, it wasn't true. I was taken down to the station and met by a smiling Adrian Johnson. Now it made sense: my nemesis had always hated me and the fact that I was more popular at school than him. He was not a bad looking guy but he didn't have my looks or body. Now a police inspector, he clearly had the right connections and the ability to set me up. I don't know how he did it, but he made it perfectly clear to me that it was him who had set me up. He told me that he had no intentions of allowing me to become a dream player for the saints. He had other ways of using me. At 10am, I should have been starting my trial. Instead I stood before a magistrate. Listening to the "facts" presented by the trustworthy Inspector Johnson, the judge had no hesitation. I was guilty. No chance for pleas from me in the new justice system: the evidence was accepted and my fate was sealed. "With immediate effect, the prisoner is condemned as guilty. The sentence of this court is that he be remanded into slavery. The sentence is life." My mind whirled. "Please sir. No please. You cant do this to me. Please, I didn't do it. I am about to become a professional rugby ..." "Silence slave. Take it away guards." "If I may, your honour ..." I stared in disbelief as Johnson stepped up to the bar again. The judge signalled for the guards to stop and I was held by both guards. "What the slave says is true, your honour. If we had not uncovered his disgusting behaviour, he would have been a professional rugby player. He would have had young fans hero worshipping him. I would like therefore to suggest, your honour, that I use my connections to enslave this slave in a special way. A way in which he will be reminded every day of what he has lost by his behaviour." ..... 12 months later, my life has changed beyond recognition. I am owned property. Owned by the club for whom I was about to become a professional rugby player. Instead of a shiny new professional contract, they own me now as a slave for life. I live under the main stand, in slave pen 6. One of the 24 official club slaves. My cage mate is Daniel who is also 19. He is the only person who I am allowed to talk to, our whispered conversations at night time the only time when we can remember that we were once straight, normal guys. Guys with our whole lives ahead of us. It's difficult to tell any of us apart. We are all about the same build and height, heavy set beefcake bred to look like real rugby players. None of us have any hair now, our bodies and heads permanently depilated. Shiny and bald. The only real way to tell us apart is the black number tattooed on our backs: our "squad number". I am number 8, Daniel number 12. Instead of the players' names on the backs of shirts though, the word SLAVE is tattooed above the number. Of course both Daniel and I wear the team kit, though not in the same way as the players or fans. We can never take our kit off. The purple kit with white stripes is tattooed permanently over our naked bodies. From a distance it looks like we are wearing the kit but close up the obscene reality is clear. My chest and arse permanently purple, lined with white stripes. The club crest tattooed on my right pec. My lower legs and feet painted in purple and white stripes as if I am wearing socks when in reality I am permanently barefoot. What about my cock and balls I hear you ask ? Well, we may be made to look like rugby players but that is where the similarity ends. Our visit to be made into club slaves also involved another process that meant we would be unable ever to be seen as rugby players or even men. Our cock and balls were removed so that only a piss hole now remained, between our legs, ringed in white tattoo to enforce it for all to see. Our life of freedom is long gone. Our life is spent working relentlessly on the pitch, making it playable and perfect. We work on the ground, sweeping and painting and cleaning the toilets. We work in the town centre, selling tickets on a Saturday morning. Have you any idea what it is like to walk naked through a Saturday rush hour ? Then on a match day, we run out in front of the team as they enter the pitch: our job to get the crowd excited as we somersault and bounce around the pitch. Naked in front of 20,000 fans who see our painted bodies and our sexless groins. What they don't see is our role after the game. Our role of massaging the players' bodies. For some players this is enough, along with our boot cleaning and the hand washing and care of their kit. But for others, we are used to lick down their sweaty bodies, suck their jock straps clean and serve as a urinal for their after-match piss. Only four of the players fuck us on a regular basis, so we don't always get fucked. You never know when it will be you, they don't care. We all look the same anyway, so they just grab the first slave when they feel like a fuck. For us, it is the only sexual contact we can ever get so it is wonderful to have a real man up our arses. ..... Its Sunday night. The game is over. We've done our duties and the players and fans are all at home, excited after the win. We lie in our cages, Daniel and I lying together and whispering so as not to disturb the security guards. We don't want to be whipped. I wrap my legs around Daniel's and we kiss passionately as I rub my finger over his piss hole. He gives me the only intimacy I will ever have now. Team slaves. Any comments gratefully received.