Date: Wed, 7 Feb 2007 12:47:15 -0500 From: Michael J. Griffith <firstname.lastname@example.org> Subject: The Warehouse, Chapter 1 Mike sat back and looked at his warehouse business. It is amazing how quickly the culture had changed after the New Conservative Party took over the legislature. It started out simply enough-a variety of bills were passed "cracking down on the rampant crime." Soon, the courts were jammed, and "streamlined," a polite way of saying due process all but disappeared. The jails and prisons quickly became overcrowded, and the Inmate Sales and Rental Act was passed. Now, Mike's warehouse business, which once had 500 employees, now had 600 slaves. Oh, that's not what they were called, of course. Slavery is illegal. They are "Prisoners Under Contract," or, as they're more commonly known, "pucks." 600 pucks, all acquired at auction, selected for their appearance. Mike likes big, beefy, hairy men. Most were older. The older ones are cheaper. All were capable of heavy labor, which is what the business needed. Mike's apartment was on the fourth floor of an old brick warehouse, and from his window, he could see the modern steel warehouse, the small two-story office building, and the single story plain concrete building known as the Training Center. The compound was surrounded by an 8 foot brick fence topped with razor wire. Mike's pucks were kept in uniforms that required a fence to keep them out of view of the general public. The uniform consisted of a 1-1/2 leather cockring and suitable footwear-socks and workboots for the warehouse workers, sandals for the office staff, and flip-flops for the support staff. There was a special dress code for the Training Center men. Looking out the window, Mike could see it was shift change at the warehouse. 120 big beefy men were headed from the old building beneath him, and walking toward the warehouse. In about 15 minutes, another 120 men would be leaving the warehouse and headed back to the barracks downstairs to shower, eat, and rest. The warehouse shifts are 13 hours, six days a week. Four shifts keep the warehouse functioning 24/7. The office is also open six days a week, from 6 am to 7 pm. The support staff works around the clock, providing cooking, cleaning, and personal grooming services for all the crews. The support staff is scheduled individually, and most crew members have split shifts. Mike was very proud of the fact his pucks were given Sunday off. Most employers worked pucks seven days a week. He was also proud that he encouraged his pucks to have an active sex life. "Sucking and fucking makes for a happy crew." Most employers felt that energy wasted on sex would adversely affect their bottom line. Of course, most of Mike's pucks were straight, and had to be taught that a hole was a hole, and reciprocity was only fair. Some of them picked him these concepts quickly, and the rest were eventually persuaded to take pleasure where they could. It wasn't easy being a puck. The Inmate Sales and Rental Act had very specific rules for acquisition and treatment of inmates. If the convict was sentenced for less than ten years, he could only be rented for annual fee, and could not be permanently marked or damaged. For those sentenced for over ten years, certain tattoos and piercings were allowed, and some permanent damage, such scars from whippings, were considered "normal wear and tear." Mike took advantage of the more onerous paragraphs in the Inmate Sales and Rental Act. An inmate whose sentence would be complete after the inmate turned sixty was available for sale, on the grounds that his life would be over by the time he reached the end of his sentence. Inmates sentenced to more than 25 years were also available for sale, because after 25 years, they could never rejoin society. Inmates that were sold were afforded little protection from the law. There were no restrictions on permanent markings or physical damage, beyond the vague phrase, "Purchased inmates may not be tortured without cause." The sentence had no meaning, because an owner could slice off a finger, or anything else, claiming it was corrective action for incorrect behavior. No owner had ever been charged for violence against a purchased inmate, nor was that likely to happen. Mike's pucks were all purchased. He didn't care for tattoos, so none had been marked by him, although many came with tattoos from their previous lives. He had some of them pierced, when the mood struck him. His training staff was instructed to keep permanent damage to an absolute minimum during training sessions. Mike liked low-hanging balls and big nipples on his men, so pucks were trained with ball weights and nipple suction upon arrival. Mike considered himself to be a good boss. While Mike sat enjoying his scotch, waiting for the crew at the end of their shift to come back to the barracks, Pete came in. "Excuse me, sir. The chef would like to know what the boss would like for dinner, and when it should be served." Pete was quite a find. 47 years old, slim, muscular, with a nice coating of hair front to back, head to toe. He was graying, but still looked incredibly hot. Sentenced to 15 years for embezzlement, he would spend the rest of his life as a puck. Mike had his nipples and cock pierced, with the rings soldered closed, so Pete would never forget his new station in life. He had adapted quickly and well to that new position, and Mike considered him a fair reward for running a successful business. Pete managed the household, chauffeured Mike around town, and provided services in the bedroom when needed. "It's been a long day. Come and massage my neck and head." Pete had been given massage training after he arrived, and had learned well. Mike leaned back and closed his eyes. If he were a cat, he would be purring. After several minutes, Mike sat up, realized he missed the end of the shift change, and said, "I think I'll see how the men are doing downstairs. I'll have dinner in an hour. Make it steak, medium-rare, and baked potato, butter, no sour cream. Tell the chef to make a nice salad with the best produce he has. None of that iceberg lettuce crap he tried to serve me yesterday." With that, Mike stood up, handed Pete his nearly empty glass, and headed toward the door. He turned around, saw Pete standing there wearing nothing but a chrome cockring and a smile, and said, "Can I bring you back something to fuck tonight? You deserve a reward for your hard work." "Whatever pleases you, sir. Perhaps I could put on a show for your pleasure." Mike walked out the door, counting his blessings. --End of Chapter One-- This is my first attempt at writing. If you like what you read, please email me at email@example.com. I have a half-dozen more chapters outlined.