Brad continued to drive to the South.
Brad Foster wasn't exactly a carpet bagger - he hadn't come south to scarf up property at bargain basement prices - but the cocky New Yorker possessed all of the attitude of the famous breed.
As he continued his drive, the dense canopy of the southern woods closed in around him, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the winding road. The hum of his bottle green Porsche's engine was a familiar comfort, a mechanical heartbeat that drowned out the unease gnawing at the edges of his confidence.
He rolled down the window, letting the thick, humid air fill the car, carrying with it the scent of pine and the distant sound of a barking dog. It was a world away from the concrete jungle he called home, and for a moment, Brad allowed himself to appreciate the rugged beauty of his surroundings.
The late afternoon sun cast a warm orange glow on the winding road ahead, and the dense canopy of the southern woods seemed to stretch out before him like an endless green tunnel. With a sense of liberation, Brad sped up, seeing no one's around, the Porsche's engine purring smoothly as the speedometer climbed higher. The wind whipped through his hair, and the rush of adrenaline coursed through his veins as he took the next curve with ease, the tires gripping the asphalt with a soft squeal.
Just as he was starting to feel invincible, a flash of blue and red lights appeared in his rearview mirror. Brad's heart skipped a beat as a Citroen Berlingo three-seater van, its police lights flashing, began chasing him. The van's tires screeched as it took the curve, its bulk swaying precariously as it struggled to keep up with the Porsche's pace. Brad's eyes darted to the speedometer, his mind racing as he realized he was doing 90 in a 55 zone. He eased off the gas, his heart pounding in his chest, but the van continued to gain on him.
Brad's instincts kicked in, his competitive nature rearing its head. He couldn't resist the thrill of the chase, the challenge it presented. With a cocky smirk, he slammed his foot down on the accelerator, the Porsche lunging forward with a roar. The engine's purr turned into a ferocious growl, the speedometer's needle dancing into the triple digits. The wind howled louder, and the trees became a blur of green as he tried to outrun the van.
The van fell back momentarily, struggling to match the Porsche's sudden burst of speed.
But then, without warning, a loud crack echoed through the air, and Brad's world spun out of control. The Porsche's rear tire blew out, sending the car careening wildly to the right. Brad's heart leapt into his throat as he fought to regain control, his hands grasping the wheel in a white-knuckled grip. The van's driver, a fat cop with a cruel grin, had shot out one of the Porsche's wheels, and now Brad was at his mercy.
The Porsche's tires screeched in protest as Brad wrestled with the wheel, the car fishtailing across the asphalt. For a few terrifying moments, it seemed as if the Porsche would crash into the trees, but Brad's quick reflexes managed to right the vehicle, and it finally came to a stop, its engine sputtering. The silence that followed was deafening, punctuated only by the sound of the van's tires crunching on the gravel as it pulled up behind the Porsche.
Brad's heart still racing, he turned to glance in the rearview mirror, his eyes locking onto the fat cop's cruel grin.
The cop's gun was pointed directly at Brad, its black barrel glinting in the fading light. "Get out of the vehicle, hands where I can see them," the cop barked, his voice dripping with malice. Brad's instincts screamed at him to resist, but something about the cop's tone made him hesitate. He slowly opened the door, his eyes never leaving the gun, and stepped out onto the asphalt.
The fat cop approached him, his gun still trained on Brad's chest. "You're under arrest for reckless driving and speeding," he growled, his eyes scanning Brad's lean physique with an unnerving intensity. Brad's mind raced as he tried to process the situation, his cocky confidence beginning to unravel.
He knew he couldn't be arrested for overspeeding; at most, he'd get a ticket. But the cop ignored him, his beefy hands closing around Brad's wrists like manacles.
Brad felt a surge of adrenaline as the cop yanked his hands behind his back, the cold metal of the cuffs biting into his skin. He tried to protest, but the cop's grip was like a vice. "Hey, you can't do this," Brad said, his voice laced with indignation. "I know my rights."
The police ignored him, their faces set in a stern expression, and forced him to the spacious back of the three-seater van.
As Brad was pushed into the van, he stumbled, his eyes adjusting to the dim light inside. The air was thick with the smell of stale cigarettes and sweat. Brad's anger and indignation boiled over, and he turned to face the cop, his eyes flashing with defiance. "You're making a huge mistake, officer," Brad sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "I'm Brad Foster, a junior member of a prestigious law firm in New York City. You're toast, buddy.
You'll be lucky if you still have a job by the time I'm done with you."
The cop's face remained impassive, his eyes cold and calculating. He turned away from Brad, ignoring his threats, and shut the door of the van. The sound of the door slamming shut echoed through the van, and Brad felt a surge of panic. He was trapped, alone with the cop, and there was no one around to hear him scream.
The cop then went to the driver's seat and started the engine, the van's engine rumbling to life.
Brad's eyes scanned the dimly lit interior, his mind racing with thoughts of escape and retribution. He was more than a little annoyed, and ever mindful of his status as a junior member of the prestigious law firm Porter, Porter and Grainger, he was spoiling for some courtroom antics and confident that the spiteful fine would never have to be paid.
As the van lurched forward, Brad's gaze locked onto the metal mesh separating him from the front seats. He tested the cuffs, trying to wriggle free, but they were too tight. The cop's eyes met his in the rearview mirror, a sly smile spreading across his face.
Brad's anger and indignation boiled over, and he turned to face the cop, his eyes flashing with defiance. "You're making a huge mistake, officer," Brad sneered, his voice dripping with contempt.
Though bristling with attitude and more than a little full of himself, the asshole from up north had a best-that-money-can-buy gym-toned body and a handsome boyish face. His chiseled features and piercing blue eyes seemed to dare the cop to take him on. The cop's gaze lingered on Brad's face, his eyes roving over the sharp jawline and full lips.
The van pulled over, and Brad's heart began to race as he heard the sound of the door opening. He turned his head to see two smelly old men climbing into the back of the van. The smell of sweat and body odor filled the air, and Brad's panic began to rise.
"What the hell is going on?" Brad demanded, his voice shaking with fear. "Who are these guys?"
The cop's sly smile grew wider as he turned to face Brad. "These are my friends," he said, his voice dripping with malice.
The two old men were not speaking, but they were looking at Brad meaningfully, their beady eyes roving over his body like vultures circling their prey. Brad's skin crawled under their gaze, and he felt a shiver run down his spine. He tried to struggle against the cuffs, but they were too tight, biting into his skin like a vice.
The van continued to ride, the engine rumbling smoothly as it devoured the miles. Brad's eyes darted back and forth, trying to take in every detail of his surroundings. He noticed that the van began to pull off the main road and onto a narrow country track, the trees closing in around them like sentinels.
As the van bounced over the uneven terrain, Brad's heart raced with a mix of fear and confusion. The cop's uniform wasn't even a police uniform. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He wasn't police. The badge was a fake, the uniform a cruel masquerade. The men in the van with him were impostors, and he had been taken by force from the roadside.
Brad's mind raced as he tried to piece together the puzzle.
The van bounced over the uneven terrain, each bump and jolt sending a fresh wave of fear coursing through his veins. The ramshackle house loomed at the end of a quarter-mile-long gravel drive, its dilapidated facade partially obscured by the thick woods that surrounded it like a fortress. The structure seemed to lean to one side, as if weighed down by the secrets it held within its weathered walls.
As the van skidded to a halt in front of the house, a flock of crows erupted from the trees, their caws piercing the silence like a dire omen.
The two smelly and thin old men, their eyes fixed on Brad with an unnerving intensity, yanked him out of the vehicle. Brad's heart raced as he stumbled, his wrists still cuffed behind his back, his eyes darting wildly around the clearing. The old fat man, a sly smile spreading across his face, began to take off the fake uniform, revealing a stained white undershirt that clung to his sweaty torso.
"Welcome, Brad," the old fat man said, his voice dripping with malice, as he cupped Brad's face in his meaty hands. "You're the newest addition to my little collection of cattle."
Brad's eyes widened in horror as he realized the full extent of his predicament. He cursed the three old men, his voice trembling with rage and fear, but they just laughed. Their laughter echoed through the dilapidated house, a chilling sound that sent a shiver down Brad's spine.
The old men dragged him down the rickety stairs to the basement, the smell of damp and decay filling his nostrils. The basement was dimly lit, the only light coming from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. The walls were lined with rusty tools and chains, and Brad's heart raced as he realized what they intended to do to him.
Back in college, Brad was quite the hotshot.
He had been a star quarterback, his athletic build and confident swagger making him a magnet for attention, both on and off the field. His weekends were a blur of parties and cheering crowds, with a different girl on his arm each time. The gridiron was his kingdom, and he ruled it with unchallenged authority.
As the old men dragged him down the rickety stairs to the basement, Brad's mind flashed back to those carefree college days. He remembered the thrill of scoring a touchdown, the rush of adrenaline as he sprinted down the field, the roar of the crowd as he celebrated with his teammates. He recalled the countless girls who had thrown themselves at him, the ones he had fucked in the dorm rooms, in the backseats of cars, and in the crowded bathrooms of frat houses.
But there were other memories, too. Memories of his gay batchmates who had made advances towards him. He remembered the time when one of them had tried to kiss him in the locker room after a game, and he had pushed him away, his face twisted in disgust. He remembered the time when another one had tried to touch him inappropriately in the library, and he had slapped his hand away, his eyes flashing with anger. He remembered the time when a third one had tried to corner him in the dorm room, and he had threatened to beat him up if he didn't leave him alone.
Brad had always been straight, and he had never been interested in men.
But as he was dragged down the rickety stairs to the basement, his mind flashed back to those uncomfortable moments in college when the power dynamics had shifted, and he had found himself at the mercy of those he had once scorned.
He remembered the taste of shame, the heat of humiliation, as his professors had cornered him, their lecherous gazes stripping away his confidence as effectively as their hands would soon strip away his clothes. The first time, it had been Professor Jenkins, a man whose approval he had desperately needed to maintain his high GPA.
Brad had been struggling in his tax law class, and Professor Jenkins had offered to fix his grades so that he still made it to the University List, but at a price. Brad had been hesitant at first, but the promise of a guaranteed A had been too enticing to resist.
As the old men dragged him down the rickety stairs to the basement, Brad's mind flashed back to those secret sessions in Professor Jenkins' office. He recalled the feeling of being trapped, of being at the mercy of a man who held his academic fate in his hands.
The basement air was thick with the scent of mildew and fear, a stark contrast to the clean, leather-bound aroma of Professor Jenkins' office. Brad's heart pounded in his chest, the rhythmic thumping echoing the dread that filled the room. The old fat man, now fully divested of his fake uniform, leered at Brad, his eyes roaming hungrily over the young man's toned physique.
"You were quite the prize in college, weren't you?" the old fat man sneered, his voice a grotesque parody of Professor Jenkins' refined tones.
Brad's mind flashed back to those secret sessions in Professor Jenkins' office, where he had been forced to submit to the professor's twisted desires. He recalled the feeling of being trapped, of being at the mercy of a man who held his academic fate in his hands.
Brad's eyes glazed over as he remembered the sensation of Professor Jenkins' fingers closing around his seven-inch penis, slowly stroking it while his nipples were being licked and pinched. The memory was both terrifying and arousing, and Brad's face flushed with shame as he felt his cock begin to stir.
The old fat man's eyes seemed to bore into Brad's very soul, as if he could see the dark secrets lurking beneath the surface.
Brad's cock twitched involuntarily, a Pavlovian response to the twisted power dynamics that had been ingrained in him during those clandestine sessions with Professor Jenkins.
In his mind's eye, Brad was transported back to the dimly lit office where the walls were lined with books on tax law and the air was heavy with the scent of old leather and stale coffee. Night after night, following his grueling rugby practices, he would stand before Professor Jenkins, muscles aching, sweat still beading on his forehead.
The ritual would begin with Jenkins' soft voice, a stark contrast to the rough commands he had endured on the field.
"Real men are old gay men's playthings," Jenkins would whisper, his breath hot against Brad's ear. Brad would feel a shiver run down his spine, a mix of fear and arousal coursing through him.
Jenkins would then begin his work, his hands roaming over Brad's muscular body, exploring every inch of him. Brad would stand there, his muscles tense, as Jenkins' fingers danced over his skin. He would feel Jenkins' breath against his neck, his lips brushing against his ear as he whispered his twisted mantras.
"You are a toy, Brad. A plaything for old gay men like me. Now, let's see how much you can take before you break," Professor Jenkins said, his voice full of malicious delight.
As he spoke, he reached for the bead vibrator that was already inside Brad's ass. He turned it on, and Brad could feel the beads moving inside him, hitting all the right spots. Brad's cock, already hard and leaking pre-cum, twitched in response.
"...Hey!"
The fake cop yelled, snapping the junior lawyer away from his trance.
Brad's eyes refocused on the dimly lit basement, the smell of mildew and fear filling his nostrils once again. The old fat man's gaze was fixed on Brad's crotch, a sly grin spreading across his face.
"Ah, looks like we've got a little excitement going on here," the old fat man said, his voice dripping with malice. "You've got a boner, boy. A nice, big boner."
Brad's face flushed with shame as he realized that one of the old gay smelly men had noticed his erection.
The three old, ugly, smelly men began stripping his junior lawyer attire down to his red boxers. Only his tight red boxers, his watch, and his necktie remained.
The old fat man stepped closer to Brad, his eyes never leaving Brad's crotch. He reached out and grabbed Brad's erect penis through his boxers, giving it a firm squeeze. Brad gasped in surprise, his body tensing up as the old man's rough hands groped him.
"Oh, this is a nice one," the old fat man said, his voice full of lust.
He gave Brad's erect penis a firm squeeze, making Brad's eyes water from the unexpected pressure. The junior lawyer's face contorted in a mix of shame, fear, and arousal as the old man's rough hands groped him.
Suddenly, the fake cop reached out and yanked Brad's socks off his feet. Before Brad could react, the cop stuffed the socks into his mouth, the soft fabric muffling his protests. The old fat man then took Brad's necktie and wrapped it around his head, securing the socks in place.
Brad's eyes widened in terror as he realized he was completely at their mercy.
The thin gay man laughed, a high-pitched, nasal sound that sent shivers down Brad's spine. "Oh, this is going to be fun," he said, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
The old fat gay man pulled down Brad's boxers, and his hard penis bounced, leaking with precum. Brad's face flushed with shame as the three men gazed at his exposed body. The old fat man reached out and stroked Brad's penis, his fingers wrapping around it like a vice.
"Ah, you're a big boy, aren't you?" the old fat man said, his voice dripping with lust.
He positioned Brad's cuffs to his neck, then used a big neck cuff to lock the lawyer's neck and bind the hand cuffs to it. The cold metal dug into Brad's skin, making him wince in discomfort. The fat old man then chained the entire thing to the hanging chain in the ceiling, pulling it tight so that Brad was forced to stand.
Brad's eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape, but there was none. He was trapped, at the mercy of these three twisted men. The thin gay man began to circle around him, his eyes fixed on Brad's exposed ex-quarterback body.
"Well, well, well, look what we've got here," the old fat man said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "A quarterback, huh? I guess that means you're used to taking it from behind, don't you, Brad?"
The old fat man cracked a gay joke, and the other two men burst into laughter. Brad's face flushed with shame and anger as he realized the true extent of their twisted desires.
The thin gay man reached out and stroked Brad's muscular chest, his fingers tracing the contours of his pecs. Brad's body tensed up in response, his muscles flexing involuntarily as the man's fingers danced across his skin.
The old fat man, still holding Brad's penis, began to stroke it slowly, his eyes fixed on Brad's face as he watched for any sign of pleasure or pain.
Suddenly, one of the three men leaned forward and licked, bit, and flicked both of Brad's nipples, sending a shiver down his spine. Brad's eyes widened in shock as the man's tongue danced across his chest, the sensation both painful and pleasurable. The old fat man, taking advantage of Brad's distraction, began by violently squeezing Brad's family jewels while slowly sucking his precumming dick.
Brad's eyes rolled back in his head as the old fat man's rough hands groped him, the sensation a mix of agony and ecstasy.
The thin gay man continued to circle around him, his eyes fixed on Brad's exposed body.
Suddenly, the second man leaned forward and inserted his rough tongue inside Brad's anus, then put his entire mouth and began sucking it like a flower. Brad's eyes widened in shock as the man's tongue danced inside him, the sensation both painful and pleasurable.
The old fat man, still holding Brad's penis, began to stroke it faster, his eyes fixed on Brad's face as he watched for any sign of pleasure or pain.
The thin gay man continued to circle around him, his eyes fixed on Brad's exposed body.
Suddenly, the old fake cop leaned in and whispered in Brad's ear, "Real men like you are destined to be gay men's sex slaves and call boys of old gay men like me."
Brad's eyes widened in shock as he recognized the words that Professor Jenkins had used on him. The old fake cop chuckled, his breath hot and heavy on Brad's neck.
The old gay man laughed as those words made Brad even harder, he did not know why. But Brad's brain had been conditioned to be susceptible to gay use, and the old man's words had triggered something deep within him.
The old fat man's grip on Brad's penis tightened, his strokes becoming more urgent as he sensed Brad's growing arousal. Brad's body began to tremble, his muscles tensing as he fought against the pleasure that threatened to consume him.
The old fat man's eyes gleamed with excitement, his voice low and menacing as he whispered in Brad's ear.
"Ah, yes, you're going to be a good boy, aren't you, Brad? You're going to cum for us, and then we're going to milk you dry. That's our goal, to milk men like you dry of their cum, and then sell them to old gay men for a hefty sum. You're going to be a prized possession, Brad, a trophy to be used and abused at gay old men's whim."
Brad's eyes widened in horror as the old fat man's words sunk in. He struggled against his restraints, but they were too tight, too secure.
The old fat man chuckled, his breath hot and heavy on Brad's neck. "Time to get started, boys," he said, his voice dripping with excitement.
Brad's heart raced, his mind reeling from the realization of his predicament. The bottle green Porsche, his pride and joy, was now just a beacon of his past life, abandoned and forgotten on the side of the road. It might as well have been a world away, along with the freedom it represented. He never saw the inside of a courtroom nor was he ever given the chance to pay any excessive fine.
Cops were called in and delivered a collective shrug, the local papers ran the story somewhere around the third page and even in NYC Brad's name got some brief press time...but other than a missing person's report and some desultory shrillness from his divorced mother and bemused girl friend, the memory of Brad Foster faded fast.
Days turned into weeks, and the once cocky New Yorker found himself in a grim, windowless room, the air thick with the musk of male sweat and fear. The slave market was a secret enclave hidden beneath the veneer of a respectable gentleman's club, where only the most affluent and depraved could indulge their darkest desires.
Brad, now just another commodity, stood on a raised platform, his body on display for the leering eyes of the elite. Chains clinked softly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the cold metal of his restraints a constant reminder of his new reality.
Suddenly, the door to the slave market swung open, and in walked a familiar face. Professor Jenkins, Brad's former tax law professor, stood before him, his eyes filled with a mixture of lust and satisfaction.
"Ah, Brad, my dear boy," Professor Jenkins said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I see you've finally found your true calling."
Brad's eyes widened in shock as he recognized the man who had once manipulated him with his academic fate.
