He had asked Ted to leave Jamal bound tightly to the bars of his cell, and the lawyer had done so. Several hours after the others left, Bob showed up. He told Jamal he had something interesting for the boy to try. The terror was evident in the kid’s eyes when Bob pulled a stool in front him and opened his medical bag. Jamal began to shake. The doctor had only visited him a few times, but they had been memorable visits, and Jamal knew what kind of session he was in for. Bob worked Jamal’s prostate and stroked his dick until he’d elicited a raging hard‑on. He tied a leather thong tightly around the base so the boy wouldn’t go soft during the preparations. Bob marveled at the organ in his hands. The boy’s cock was truly spectacular‑‑ deep chocolate brown, almost 11 inches long and 7 around (longer and thicker than Roy’s, even), covered with thick veins. He had big balls that hung low in his large scrotum; his foreskin (like Jose’s when he’d first been captured) barely covered his cockhead when he was fully hard, and the cherry‑pink tip often poked out slightly.

Bob started stroking Jamal’s horse cock, sliding the foreskin back and forth slowly. The boy moaned, and Bob picked up the pace a little. He brought Jamal close to orgasm, then stopped. He began pulling and tugging on the foreskin, lightly at first, then harder and harder. Jamal began screaming as his foreskin was stretched further and further. When the skin was nice and pliable, Bob pulled out his trusty surgical needle and sutures, and sewed the foreskin closed over the pink cock head. Jamal howled in pain with every stitch. When he was done, Bob wiped away the drops of blood and cleaned the area. He then went over to Ted’s array of torture devices and selected the vacuum pump he’d given the lawyer for Christmas. Bob was humming softly as he selected the largest tube and packed Jamal’s balls and sewn‑up cock into it. As he turned it on and watched the pump work its magic on the kid’s tortured genitals, Bob took special notice of how the expanding cock and vacuum action further inflated the foreskin. He couldn’t help smiling as he thought of Michael Jordan saying “Ballpark Franks… they plump when you cook ‘em.” Bob chuckled to himself and thought about all the fun he and Jamal would have for the next seven days.

In the hopes that they’d come across a worthy victim, Roy purposely wore his uniform pants and boots on the drive to Georgia, though without the gun belt, and with only a t‑shirt on. He didn’t look like a cop from the waist up, so nobody would remember the pants and boots. However, he kept the gun belt and his police jacket in the car. In a moment’s notice he’d be able to strap on the belt and put his jacket on over the t‑shirt, and he’d look like a cop. The men took Roy’s car, since it was the same model as many unmarked police cars, and Roy had a siren hooked up and a flashing light that he could mount on the roof. If they came across anyone he wanted, Roy would be able to pull the guy over and have him secured before he even realized Roy wasn’t a real Georgia cop. Roy hoped they’d find an attractive blond kid traveling alone; he had a thing for that type.

Mike had a very particular image in mind when he thought about the kind of slave he wanted. He didn’t want a boy like Bob and Ted had (though he certainly thought they made wonderful slaves). Mike wanted a real man… a big, burly macho guy like himself that he could break entirely and strip of all will and pride. He liked dark, hairy Mediterranean types, and ideally would’ve loved a macho Italian from New York or New Jersey. He knew he’d find one in backwoods Georgia?

The three men had stopped at a roadside diner about sixty miles from the cabin. The place was packed with people of all ages, and Roy looked around hopefully. Sadly, nobody fit the bill. The men ordered their food and were just finishing up when a commotion started at a nearby table. Some big‑mouthed guy with a NEW YAWK accent was giving it to the waitress about a mistake in his order. He was being a real asshole about it, too, going on and on in a loud voice about how stupid southerners were. It was not a smart thing to do in a diner full of Georgians. It was an even dumber thing to do in a diner where Mike was eating. Mike was filled with southern pride, and particularly hated the condescending way northerners thought all southerners were stupid rednecks. When Mike looked over and saw a handsome olive‑skinned man with a semi‑pro football player’s build, he knew he’d found his victim.

The three men finished quickly and headed out to the parking lot. There was only one car with New York plates. They’d heard the guy yell he was in a hurry to get going on his way back home, so they knew the direction he’d be heading. Roy put on his gun belt and jacket, and they pulled out of the lot and hid the car behind some bushes on a deserted stretch of road about a quarter of a mile away. Sure enough, the loudmouth’s car zoomed past about 10 minutes later, obviously well over the speed limit. Roy put the flashing light on the roof of the car, turned on the siren, and pulled the guy over. It took less than 2 minutes for the three men to cuff and gag the guy, and throw him into the trunk of Roy’s car. His car was still running when the cops found it abandoned there a little while later.

Roy turned his car around and headed south. Forget about a week in the cabin, Mike wanted to get his prize home right away! Roy couldn’t blame him, but silently wondered if he’d ever get the chance to find a slave of his own. Oh well, at least it would be fun helping Mike break this one.

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