Grunting, struggling and fighting, I remained strapped to the restraint chair, my gagged cries, for help barely audible as it was, rendered mute over the din of the van’s engine. The way the ball-gag forced my mouth open and how its straps dug into the corners of my mouth made me drool like an imbecile, and my continued strained groans and efforts to move made the drool drip from my chin onto my chest, soaking through my shirt. I couldn’t see anything in the dark, cold container, but I did my best to escape, my reason – the knowledge that I had no means of escape – having long since departed me in the face of the raw urge to get away. 


The van was clearly not trying to stick out in traffic, as its driving gave me the impression that it was adhering to the speed limits and stopping at every red light. When it turned left and right I was always sure the turn would make me and the chair topple – in fact I hoped it would as it might aid me in my release in some way – but the chair didn’t as much as skid across the floor.

We drove for a long time. While I had no idea where we were or how long I had actually been in the van, it felt like we were closing up on half an hour.

I was thoroughly terrified at this point, the rage leaving me in favour of giving me a more palpable sense of dismay as my overeager mind worked overclocked, imagining all sorts of horrible things that might befall me as soon as the van reached its destination.

Speaking of, the van was slowing down. We had travelled, I suspected, on a highway for the last ten minutes at noticeable speed, but all of a sudden the van slowed and made a left turn, and now it was, compared to the last stretch, crawling along. Before long, it came to a complete stop, and then it started beeping as it reversed a little ways.

Then it halted and the driver killed the engine. The driver’s side door opened and closed, and then all was silent.

Shivering and sweating, my eyes staring straight ahead at where I knew the door was, I waited expectantly for it to open, but I also dreaded it.

My heart skipped a beat when the van’s rear door, several minutes later, finally slid up. Momentarily blinded by the light, my vision slowly cleared, and with a minor shock I felt the chair starting to move again.

It exited the van and rolled into a vast chamber, perhaps as much as six times the size of the one I had been snatched from. This room was clearly not abandoned, however, as rows upon rows of shelves – taller than three men standing on the shoulders of the man beneath – and pallets filled to the rafters with boxes of varying sizes, all labelled “Hamilton Industries”. The merchandise made the very large chamber feel extraordinarily small. Large pipes of fluorescent lights high overhead bathed the stockpile in light, the illumination bounding off the white panelled walls and smooth industrial flooring lighting every nook and cranny.

Curiously, there were nobody around that I could see, but the chair continued rolling on, turning left a little into the chamber and continued between the seemingly endless rows of shelves towards a set of open double doors at the far end of the chamber. After noticing the panel next to the open doors and the display above them, I realized it was an elevator.

As the chair moved indefatigably forwards, my frightened eyes started noticing details on the many shelves and boxes stacked neatly all over the place. Every level on every shelf had different tags and, I assumed, different barcodes detailing item and lot numbers. The boxes themselves had stickers on them with more barcodes and descriptions of what was inside, but what I managed to read as the chair continued its stroll didn’t really tell me much of what exactly was in them, though I got a pretty good idea about some of them.

 Straps; industrial – black, buckled.
Auto-rotary device; no sleeve.
Plugs; starter set, assorted.
Compressor; wired, HI pumps universal fit.
Stainless steel bars; extendable, multi-purpose.
Ball-gags; 20, assorted colours.
Penile restraint set.
Ropes; 5mm, blue.
Lube; 1 litre, 30 bottles.
Horsetail plugs; inflatable.
Robotic sucking tube; type #EX-10, size 16.

I caught but a glimpse of a handful of the items that all seemed to be organized in a system, but there were more boxes around with different contents in them than I could count in a single day. My sense of trepidation growing, the chair rolled into the elevator, and with a ding, the doors slid shut behind me.

The slight increase in gravity told me the elevator was going up, but the touchscreen display on the wall only showed some kind of screensaver, so I received no information as to which floor I was headed for.

After a moment – could have been three floors up, could have been ten, I had no way of knowing – the elevator’s ascent slowed, the doors opening shortly after. The chair reversed out of the elevator, then, in place, turned around and revealed a hallway that reminded me of a corridor in a hospital ward; plastered walls given a rich white coat of paint and smoothened, limestone floors. Wood panelling decorated the walls to break up the monotony, and more fluorescent lights shone from the oak ceiling.

Down the corridor, I saw three security cameras, one of them staring directly at the elevator doors, and I was certain someone was watching my bound form on some screen somewhere else in this disturbing place.

There were several steel doors on either side of the corridor, each with a small digital keypad next to them, and as the chair rolled me past, I saw that all the doors were marked with a letter and a number, just like the doors on patients’ rooms in a hospital would be.

Or, maybe, as on the doors leading to the padded cells of a mental ward.

A minute later the chair arrived at a T-intersection in the hallway. The two branching corridors leading to the left and right looked pretty much the same as the first stretch, except there were wide windows on either end, sunlight spilling in from the one on the right. Seeing some rooftops out the windows – flat tops like on industrial buildings, rather than slanted roofs of a residential area – it was safe to assume we were rather high up, at least six floors or more. Additional cameras kept silent vigil in all directions.

The chair turned in place to the left, leading me down the corridor. The doors here were different from the ones I had seen so far. They were steel doors that, when opening, would slide into the wall to allow access, kind of like an elevator door, or the doors one would frequently see in sci-fi TV shows.

Unlike the other doors, however, these were not labelled akin to patient rooms. Instead, these doors, at least the ones the chair took me past, were marked “Playroom” 01 through 10, “Machine Room” 01 through 06, and “Orgasm Room” 01 through 08. The amount of space between the doors indicated that the chambers beyond were far larger than the rooms we had passed before the T-intersection. There were also digital keypads next to these doors, but unlike the others I had seen down the hall, these were far larger and, it seemed, were more touch-screens than they were keypads. As we drove down the hall, I noticed that some of these screens were flashing red with the text “In use” flashing in gold.

I would have swallowed due to my ever-increasing sense of unease, but even that gesture was difficult enough with the silicone ball firmly secured behind my teeth.

The chair came up to the eighth “Playroom”, the door sliding open at its approach. Turning, it crossed into the room, the door closing behind it, a digital beeping sound telling me it was locking up.
The square room was perhaps five meters across both in width and length, the centre of the white tiled floor dominated by a large steel framed bed with a short, illustrative headboard – rising just a few inches over the plain white sheets covering the mattress – marking where the head of the bed was, as there were no pillows or blankets on it. The steel frame ran around all four sides of the mattress, just half an inch lower than the top of the mattress itself. The walls were plaster painted with light blacks and dark greys, giving the otherwise dull look of the plaster a more vibrant, artistic touch. A rectangular, white semi-translucent box above with three tubes fluorescent lights lighted the room.

On the wall to my left, on the wall closest to the foot of the bed, there hung a huge flat screen TV, easily more than fifty i nches, the screen currently reading “Welcome Jan <3” in sparkling white letters on a black background. The text floated lazily in the black void, and I couldn’t decide if they were trying to be funny on my behalf, or just twisted.

Behind the headboard of the bed, lining the wall, were three mahogany cabinets, two about as tall as I was, the third barely reaching up to my thighs. The top halves of the identical larger dressers opened by pulling on the slick steel knobs, and the bottom halves were comprised of four drawers with similar knobs in the middle. The far wall, on the bed’s right, was plain asides from a photograph in a plain black border, showing the dark silhouette of a very curvaceous, naked woman standing on her tiptoes, stretching with her arms above her head. Mounted in the top corner to the right of the TV screen was a camera aimed square at the bed. From its angle I supposed it also had the door under surveillance.

The chair rolled over to the bed’s left flank, and here’s where I for the first time since giving up trying to escape my constraints discovered a venue for escape. Whoever was going to come in, intending to move me into the bed, was going to have a hell of a time accomplishing that. My military hand-to-hand combat training might not be full of finesse, but it would be sufficient to create an opening – even against two or three assailants – in which I could strike back and make my escape. I merely had to pick the right moment, the split-second of someone’s inattention I could exploit and thus make a run for it.

This was not to be, however, as I soon discovered there would be nobody coming to move me from the chair to the bed. The bed would be doing that on its own.

Six articulated metallic tentacles – there were no better word to describe them – rising from both sides of the bed, coming from under it, slithered towards me in the air like hovering snakes. Two of them wrapped around my ankles, two of them around my wrists, one around my midsection and the final one around my throat.

All the tentacles, thankfully asides from the one around my throat, tightened on my limps just before the straps on the bed came undone. I immediately tried to fight my way out, but my body might as well have been submerged in solidified concrete for all the success I was having. Seemingly without effort and with improbable mechanical grace, the steel tubes hoisted me from the bed and brought me over the bed. Suspended about half a meter over the mattress, the steel tentacles repositioned my body with the utmost care, arranging me spread eagle, hovering, before they gently lowered me down onto the bed.

As soon as I was on it, more metallic marvels sprouted from the steel frame running around the bed. Flat, about a third of an inch wide with soft pads on the insides, the flexible metal straps wrapped around my wrists, ankles, above the elbows, beneath and above the knees, then started retracting, pulling my limbs towards the side of the bed, towards the frame from whence the strange restraints had grown. Just as I feared the bindings were going to pull me apart, they gave a little, leaving me spread eagle, pressed down on the mattress, but I was, for all intents and purposes, comfortable on the bed. However, I was completely immobile.

Satisfied that its lesser cousins held me in place, the bigger tentacles unwound from me, retreating back under the bed.

With a confirming dinging sound coming from the TV on the wall in front of me, the door opened, and the restraint chair let itself out, the door sliding closed and locking when it had left the room.
Left by myself in the room, tied to the bed, thankful for the padded insides of my metallic restraints lest the steel chafe and cut my skin, I was momentarily fascinated by the display of technology that had moved me from the chair to bind me to the bed.

Just then, the TV screen changed. The welcoming text faded away, and appearing on a purple background graphically fashioned to resemble churning clouds, more text started to appear, from top to bottom, filling the screen in short order.

I had to lift my head from the bed to be able to properly read, and what I red left me both disheartened, shocked and infuriated.
 
Welcome to Hamilton Industries and Playroom 08, Jan.

You have been selected as the first male subject for our elite, extremely selective, modern and technological slave brothel.

Hamilton Industries caters to a very discerning clientele with sexual tastes that simply are not sated in the confines of everyday life. Craving excitement, a safe and discreet location, and most important of all, genuine kidnapped slaves, the clients pay handsomely to use our facilities and our diverse stock of young, gorgeous captives. In addition to manufacturing all of our facilities and equipment, our devoted Research and Development department are constantly designing and creating new, unique items and toys to ensure Hamilton Industries stand head and shoulders above any other sex-toy manufacturers in the world.

Our clients are particular about their desires, and their natures and sexual tastes means they simply do not get the same thrill from dominating consensual submissives. That is where Hamilton Industries’ varied selection of captives comes in.

Until today, Hamilton Industries has not offered any male subjects to our clients, as our clientele consists solely of women, from most walks of life, most whom prefer younger girls to “play” with. However, after an increasing amount of requests for at least one male captive, Hamilton Industries decided to adapt and acquire a suitable subject – you – in order to please our clients and prove that Hamilton Industries is not set in their ways. We already had the staff with the necessary experience to handle a male captive, and the required machines and gear to keep both them and our clients occupied with you, so we merely needed to get you on-site in order to have all the pieces in place.

The tastes and sexual preferences of our clients are as varied as the clients themselves, but as you will need a certain amount of training before you are offered to our clients to book time with, you will be put through a rigorous sexual regime that will prepare you for most of what our clients might pay to do to/with you.

Your handler, Christie, will be along shortly to start your training, and she will get to know your body. Your handler is your trainer, coach and caretaker. She is the primary employee of Hamilton Industries in charge of your training and physical as well as mental wellbeing. After you enter regular rotation for the pleasure of our clients, she will be the point of contact between Hamilton Industries and clients who book time with you, and she will be the one who takes care of everything prior to bookings in terms of having you clean and delivered whatever the client(s) wish. She will also be one of very few Hamilton Industries employees who knows your strengths and limits best, and will therefore be uniquely qualified to inform potential clients about what to expect from you.

You will, of course, be monetarily compensated for your time at Hamilton Industries. The agreed-upon monthly salary will be put into an account for you, and will be transferred to you upon your release. When that is, however, is impossible to say. For the moment we will not be offering any more male captives to our clientele, and as you are already fully booked for months after your initial training, you may not expect to be released any time soon.

This covers the initial orientation. We welcome you yet again to Hamilton Industries, Jan, and hope you and your fellow captives will be both in demand and lucrative for our business venture.

Sincerely,
B. Hamilton
 
Next, the TV screen changed to list a set of ludicrous rules to me, but so far it seemed they were dead serious about everything they were telling me. The rules weren’t many, but they were comprehensive enough.
 
Rules for Jan, the male captive of Hamilton Industries:
1.       You will be naked at all times. Sexual slaves do not require clothing.
2.       As a sex-slave, you have no say nor no control over what happens to your body.
3.       When not confined to your cell, you will in one way or another always be restrained.
4.       Every captive is assigned a handler and an edger; the former is your direct superior, the latter will ensure you are kept at a constant level of horniness when your time is otherwise unoccupied (this to reinforce obedience to Hamilton Industry staff, and to ensure your balls are always full should that be on a potential client’s wish list for a session with you).
5.       No orgasms without your handler’s express permission.
6.       Exception to rule #5; when clients desire to force you to orgasm.
 
Had I been in the mood for dark humour at the moment, I would have smiled at the realization I was already in violation of the first rule.

These people were insane. And yet, it seemed they took themselves very seriously.

A rape brothel, is what they were basically telling me this place was. And I was their new captive, the only male among God knew how many unfortunate enslaved girls.

I had trouble deciding on which emotion I should focus on. The revelations, the swiftness of my incarceration, were overwhelming. On some level, I didn’t really believe what was happening to me, despite the fact that I was bound spread eagle on a bed in what appeared to be a well-equipped facility, a facility equipped to deliver on what it promised.

The rules vanished from the flat screen, transitioning into some hardcore porn filmed from the man’s perspective, a busty, tattooed brunette between his legs, sucking away on his cock, slipping in the odd cliché-heavy dirty talk between slurps.

I had to wonder if this was meant to turn me on. On any regular day it certainly would, but considering where I was, what was happening with me, I couldn’t have cared less about it.

The porn screening went on. After the brunette had made the cock she had worked and slobbered so hard on shoot all over her face and fake tits, a pair of blond twin sisters came on next, making a real show of themselves before the male lead entered the fray. This was also filmed from the male’s perspective, and when the twins had finished up giving a very theatrical double blowjob, they took turns riding him – right way and reverse way – until he got close enough to pull out and jack off onto their faces. Then the next movie started from another cock’s point of view, where a mature but still very sexually attractive woman entered, giving the cock a very talented massage with lots of oil until it spurted a half dozen thick ropes of cum onto her face and chest. The next video was that of a guy straddling an ebony beauty, fucking her huge, oiled up tits until he exploded between them.

More and more clips were thrown at me, and despite my confusion and my conflicting sensations of fear and anger over my captivity, my pants were getting uncomfortably tight. All of the videos were filmed as though from the man’s eyes, and I could only assume this was a deliberate choice on my captors’ part, as it was easier to imagine oneself in the man’s shoes when the movies were filmed POV.

Then there was a beep from the door, and as it unlocked and slid open, the TV switched off. My eyes went wide when I saw the girl who stepped inside.

Coming in on her bare feet, the metal door closing behind her, her naked soles pit-patted on the tiles as she came to stand next to the bed.

It was a grinning blonde, her ass-long hair arranged in two pigtails held together by pink scrunchies behind her ears, the golden locks dangling off her back where it curved inwards by her lower back, before the curve of her tight, exquisite ass sent the curve trailing outwards again. Bright blue eyes regarded me through a pair of slender glasses with gleeful superiority, her pretty pink lips pouting in a wicked smile. Her face was sweet like a schoolgirl’s, but definitely belonged to a woman in her early twenties.

Her body was immaculate and sexy, and she showed it off by wearing rather little. Pink skirt, so short that it was more like a pair of panties with frills on them, covered up her womanhood between her shapely thighs, little more than a strip of dental floss running between her sweet ass cheeks. A simple white open shirt was tied just below the swell of her big breasts, and the hard nipples poking through the thin fabric told everybody she was not wearing a bra – not to mention that she had barbell piercings in them. Her belly was tight and toned, a jewel hanging by a short chain decorating her navel. A delicate gold chain adorned her neck, and two gold armbands hung leisurely on her left wrist.

This would be Christie, my “handler”, according to the infomercial I had been shown.

She licked her lips, planting her hands on her hips and adopted a playful stance with her head cocked to one side, and I noted her toe and fingernails were painted to match her lipstick and skirt-panties.

“Ooh shit, Leah wasn’t kidding.” Christie leered, leaning over the bed to place her hands on my left arm, her breasts dangling in her tied shirt over my face.

“I’m so lucky to get such a cute slaveboy.”

Her voice was sweet, melodic, but with an unmistakable edge of haughtiness, her hungry eyes looking me up and down telling me far more than her words did.

Sensually, she crawled into the bed, straddling my waist, her hands slipping under the bottom of my shirt to feel my abdomen and chest under the fabric. She bit her lip and groaned.

“For so long I’ve said we need to have a boy on our menu,” she murmured, sliding her ass down until her crotch was aligned with mine. She gasped when she felt my porn-induced semi-hardness fighting against the denim pants. “And now we have one. And I get to be your handler.”

She turned positively giddy, giggling and smiling to herself, her hands still rubbing on my abdominal muscles.

This girl was insanely hot, and she was touching me all over my abdomen, grinding against my unwanted erection, but already I despised her. She talked as though I was her property – to her I most definitely was just that – and I didn’t like the way she kept tittering to herself, like she was picturing and plotting what to do to me.

I wanted to tell the brat off and threaten her. She was lithe and could be easily overpowered. But bound and gagged as I was, I could do nothing but sneer at her. She didn’t seem to care, if she even noticed, busy as she was touching me with one hand and squeezing her boobs with the other.

“Oooh I could just eat you up,” she leaned forward, crotch to crotch with me, her breasts pooling against my chest as she put her head close to mine, an index finger coming up to draw tender lines on my cheeks. One of her pigtails slid past her shoulder, falling against me.

“I’m going to have such fun with you,” she half whispered, half moaned like she was a bitch in heat. “I’m gonna make you worship me. I’m gonna make you want to scream my name and picture my naked body when you are desperately horny with no chance to cum.”

After a moment of gazing into my loathing eyes, more ideas surely running through her twisted mind, she rose with a sigh, taking the warmth of her bosom away as well.
“But first, we need to get the admin stuff done.”

She slid off me and hopped onto the floor, walking behind the bed towards the cabinets. I tried following her with my gaze, but I couldn’t see much behind me. I could hear her open a drawer and hear her get a few things out that she plopped on top of the smallest cabinet.

“Though,” she said as she walked back around to stand next to me. “I suppose the first thing is kind of fun.”

She brandished a pair of large trauma shears, and with another grin started cutting the clothes off me. I tried stru ggling, tried warning her not to do it, but she merely giggled and cut away, reducing my clothes to tatters with one hand and touching my exposing skin with the other. She struggled a little with the denim pants, but the shears did their job. The shoes and socks she simply took off, and tossed them together with the scraps of my other clothes in the corner behind her.

Now naked and exposed on the bed, alone with the crazy girl who seemed to enjoy my predicament ve ry much, my foreboding grew tenfold.

“Aww,” she gave me an exaggerated pout. “You went all limp.” She nodded at my slack cock. “Don’t you think I’m hot?”

She struck a pose for me, swaying her hip and pushing her chest out, one finger touching the bottom of her lip like an insecure teenage girl, the other hand gingerly grabbing one of her breasts, giving it a soft squeeze.

I merely growled at her, but this seemed to please her even more.

“Don’t worry about it. After your first day I’ll be surprised if I ever see you limp again.”

She leaned over the bed, one hand playfully grabbing and rubbing my cock and balls. “But you do have a nice tool on you. Gonna measure it in a bit.”

As I wondered what for, finding the situation more bizarre by the second, she walked back to the dresser and put away the trauma shears, then appeared with a syringe and a wad of cotton, making me panic, dozens of dread ideas running through my mind seeing the needle in her hand.

“Oh relax,” she said unfazed, sitting down on the side of the bed. “I just need some bloodwork so the lab can confirm you don’t have any diseases. Clients aren’t going to pay for that, no matter how hot you are.

“Now, for your own sake, keep your arm still.”

As the tip of the needle closed in on my left arm, my entire body tensed up, rigid as steel, fearing that any sort of movement would hurt, a lot.

With practiced ease and surprising care, Christie first dabbed my skin with the moist ball of cotton, then broke the skin with the needle and then pulled the plunger back, filling the container of the syringe with my blood. When it was full, she retracted the needle and pressed the cotton against the puncture, keeping it in place for a few moments as she inspected her batch. Satisfied everything was in order, she got off the bed and put the syringe down.

Then she appeared standing by the headboard, holding another needle, leaning over me by planting one hand on my shoulder. From this view, looking straight up, Christie’s pigtails and boobs were dangling over me. The new syringe had a clear liquid in it, and if I didn’t already know she intended to inject me with it, her disturbing grin told me she did.

“You’re not going to make me use this stuff on you in the future, though, are you?”

She penetrated the skin of my right shoulder with the needle, injecting the substance slowly until the plunger was pressed all the way down. I dreaded what it was she was subjecting me to, but my feeble attempts at resistance didn’t faze her in the slightest.

Putting the spent syringe away, she resumed her position behind my head, her fingers finding my nipples, her thumbs flicking against them and sometimes pinching them lightly with her thumbs and forefingers.

“Should take effect in a moment”, she said. Her flushed cheeks and the way she softly exhaled through her open lips told me she was beyond horny, and most likely doing a good job of restraining herself.

It didn’t make me sympathize for her one bit, however.

With a confused groan, I lifted my head to look down my body. My cock suddenly felt very good, and I watched in disbelief as it straightened and swelled with impossible speed, giving me an instant, rock-hard erection within seconds.

Christie giggled. “Theeeere it goes.” She reached for something on the dresser. “Now we can measure it.”

Stepping around the bed with a tape measure in hand, she got back into bed and sat down on her knees between my forcibly spread legs. When her eyes locked on my cock, she looked lost for a moment, as though she had completely checked out.

“So big and beautiful…” she eventually whispered with a moan, grabbing my hardness with a tender hand, making me groan against my will to feel her warm hand on my throbbing erection.
Christie smiled, looking at me, biting her lip again, tracing her thumb up one of the veins.

“Do you like that?” She started stroking me, slowly, oh so slowly, her other hand dropping the tape measure on the mattress to cradle my balls.

I moaned again from behind my gag. I didn’t want her touching me, didn’t want to be near her or this place, but it still felt good. My cock, ever a slave to pleasurable sensations, was delighting in her caresses.

“Not now, though,” she said, letting go of me. She sounded disappointed. Grabbing the tape measure, she then said, “Let’s just get this done.”

With it, she measure me all over; length from base to tip, length from balls to tip, girth around the bottom, middle and around the head, length of the head, and girth and length of the ball sack. She muttered the measurements to herself, and the way she did this without writing anything down spoke of an extraordinary memory on her part, if she actually did remember all the measurements.
“Right, got it,” she said to nobody in particular, then crawled over my thigh and got out of bed. Replacing the items she had used in the cabinets, she grabbed the syringe with my blood and the used syringe, then headed for the door.

Standing between me and the panel next to the door, she entered a code to make it open. With a last, longing stare at me – her blue eyes lingering on my straining manhood – she said, “I’ll be back in a little bit. Try to think about this hot ass,” she slapped her hot ass, “until I get back.”

The door closed and locked behind her, leaving me alone again, naked and with a desperate hard-on.