Ben strode through the station forecourt, enjoying the warm autumn breeze, and into the car park where Master was waiting for him. He shoved his rucksack onto the back seat of Master’s car, and after a brief word of greeting Master drove the fifteen miles to his secluded house in the countryside.

Having arrived at the house, Master showed Ben his new accommodation, a room on the ground floor near the kitchen. The room was small and sparsely furnished; there was a single iron-framed bed, on which lay a set of overalls, a chair and a small wardrobe that already contained a pair of Wellington boots. The window was too high up to look out of, not that anyone could have looked through the patterned glass anyway. Some very hefty steel bars across the window prevented access or escape. A doorway in the opposite wall led to a shower room. Master told Ben to strip himself naked and stow all his clothes in the wardrobe. This didn’t take long because he’d only been allowed to retain two pairs of jeans and a couple of T-shirts, plus his rubber jeans and rubber bodysuit. Ben stood to attention as Master examined him, checking his arse and cock. Master told him to put on the overalls and boots, then led him into the garden and ordered him to clear the fallen leaves off the lawn and the terrace.

It was good to be out in the air, although Ben was surprised to be doing manual work so soon after arriving. The sun shone on his mop of blond hair and the absence of a shirt revealed the tribal bands tattooed around his biceps. Master had shown great interest in these tattoos; they were the work of a well-known London tattooist and were really top quality workmanship. Ben’s athletic body displayed them to perfection. Wearing rubber boots without socks was a strange sensation, and as he raked the leaves off the lawn the front of the bib-and-brace overalls rubbed pleasantly against his pierced nipples. After about an hour Master came out of the house, checked Ben’s handiwork with the rake and broom, then ordered him indoors.

“It’s time to improve your appearance so that you actually look like a slave”, said Master as he ordered Ben downstairs to the cellar that he used for SM sessions. Ben knew the cellar from previous visits to the house so was already aware of the bench and heavy chair, both well equipped with straps, the racks of whips, paddles and assorted tools, and the hooks embedded in the ceiling and walls. There was a clean-up area in one corner equipped with a wash basin, toilet and shower cubicle. Ben viewed the bench with a mixture of apprehension and longing. One of Masters pleasures was to strap him securely to the bench and then to gently play with Ben’s cock and balls. When Ben became near to ejaculating Master would suddenly cease contact leaving Ben desperate to cum, his hips gyrating as much as the straps would permit, writhing and begging for the release of an orgasm. Master would stand and watch with amusement, or sometimes leave the room for a while, until Ben’s raging erection had subsided. Then the torment would resume. Master would repeat this several times before permitting his slave an orgasm. At this point Ben would vent great spurts of cum that sometimes reached his neck. But at the moment Master had his mind on other things.

He ordered Ben to strip and sit on a stool in the clean up area. He put a cloth around Ben’s neck, like a regular barber, and worked on his hair with electric clippers. There was no mirror, so Ben couldn’t see how much of his hair was being cut off, but he sensed from the vibration of the clippers on his skull and the amount of hair falling onto the cloth that there wasn’t going to be much hair left. Master finished working with the clippers and turned to replace them on then shelf. As he did this Ben cautiously raised his right arm and felt his head. His scalp felt like sandpaper; Master had zero-cropped him and there was no hair left. Master chuckled and said “I’m not finished yet. Lean forward and put your head over the basin.” Ben obeyed, and felt warm water being poured over his head. Master then applied shaving gel and worked over Ben’s head with a Mach 3 razor. He felt Ben’s head to ensure there was no stubble remaining, then rinsed his head before carefully patting it dry with a towel. Ben’s head felt really smooth and he yearned to see himself in a mirror. “Close your eyes” Master ordered. Ben obeyed and Master shook talcum powder onto his head and rubbed it all over. Ben opened his eyes to a cloud of talcum powder, which was immediately obscured by the heavy rubber hood placed over his head. Master quickly closed the zip and fastened the collar. There were no eyeholes so Ben couldn’t see what was happening, but he didn‘t care too much as he was enjoying the feel of the rubber hood on his bare skull.

Master led him to the bench and quickly strapped him down. Was the cock torment about to start? Ben’s cock had been hard all the time his hair was being removed and now it became rigid. He felt cool fluid being sprayed onto the upper left side of his chest, then something being gently scraped over the skin. He realised this area was being shaved, but why? What little body hair he had was regularly depilated because he like to keep himself smooth. Another spray of cool fluid, then something that felt like paper was smoothed onto the spot. Ben realised he was being prepared for a tattoo. In the slave contract he’d agreed that Master would take ownership of all future body modifications, but it was a shock that work had started so soon. He asked Master what the design was, and almost immediately felt a rubber gag being fitted in his mouth and securely fastened behind his head. Master said nothing. Ben heard the unmistakeable buzz of a tattoo machine, then felt the needle commencing work on his chest. He tried to guess the design from the feel of the needle on his skin, but that was really a waste of time. The tattooing was more painful than when his biceps were inked, and seemed to go on and on for ages. Master worked relentlessly and silently. Suddenly the machine stopped buzzing, and Ben felt Vaseline being rubbed gently onto the tattoo, then a dressing was applied, and he was relieved it was over.

The gag was removed, then the hood, and Ben blinked in the bright light. He strained to look down at his chest, but all he could see was the dressing, firmly held in place with surgical tape. Master said “It’s good” from behind his surgical mask, “but I’m not finished yet”. He pulled on a fresh pair of surgical gloves, poured fluid on his forefingers, then inserted his forefingers into Ben’s nostrils. “That’s got them good and clean - I don’t want you to get an infection when I put a ring through your nose. And I don’t want you flinching when the needle goes through so it’s best if you close your eyes and concentrate on breathing deeply and slowly”. Ben was scared now. If this had been a piercing shop he’d have bottled out and risked being embarrassed in front of his mates. But here he was strapped helpless to a bench, marked with a tattoo he hadn’t seen, and a needle about to perforate his nose. Less than three hours ago he’d been on the train full of excitement about his new life as a slave. Master’s gloved hand came towards him holding a small cork, which he inserted in Ben’s right nostril. Ben screwed his eyes shut and waited for the pain. He remembered the pain when his nipples were pierced; surely this couldn’t be as bad. Without warning an excruciating blast of pain coursed through the front of Ben’s face and he heard and felt a distinct crunch as his septum was perforated. The pain caused his eyes to water copiously and he could taste the blood that trickled onto his lips. “Taper coming in now” said Master in his deep steady voice, then “jewellery coming through”. Ben opened his eyes and saw Master’s hand moving as he screwed a ball closure in place. The ring felt surprisingly heavy. His gaze wandered to the small tray on the table beside the bench. It contained a dermal punch and steel taper, both bloodstained, the cork he’d seen earlier, and a thick plug of flesh - flesh from his nostril! Master cleaned Ben’s face with antiseptic wipes, then undid the restraint straps on the bench.

As Ben sat up Master put a steel chain around his neck and fastened it with a padlock. “You can wear that until I get a steel collar made for you. Now you really look like my slave” said Master, “but what you need is some fresh air. Put your overalls and boots back on and finish sweeping those leaves“. Ben dressed obediently, then walked unsteadily up the cellar stairs. In the back hallway, near the garden door, there was a large mirror. He paused in front of it and surveyed himself. It was strange seeing a bald head looking back at him; the first time his head had been free of hair since his birth twenty-six years earlier. But his head was a regular shape and being bald actually suited him. The ring through his septum was a shock, though. It was horseshoe shape with two balls, and very thick and heavy. Ben guessed the gauge was maybe six or seven millimetres. The front of his overalls rubbed on the tattoo dressing, and Ben longed to see the design. The sound of Master’s footsteps on the stairs encouraged Ben to hurry into the garden and get on with his chores. A while later Master called him back indoors to shower and change before preparing the evening meal. In the privacy of his shower room Ben removed the dressing and looked at his new tattoo. It was a figure 4, big and bold, a couple of inches high and just as wide. Ben couldn’t think of the purpose of this design, and having dressed in his rubber jeans and boots, as ordered, he begged Master for an explanation. “You are my fourth slave so you are marked with a number four. From now on I will refer to you either as slave or number four. You will forget your former name. And before you beg to ask it’s none of your business how or when I released your three predecessors”.

A few days later Master shaved Ben’s head again, and then commenced a tattoo project for his head. It was a bold tribal piece cleverly based on the much-admired designs on Ben’s biceps. The outline work alone took two hours, and the infill inking took several more sessions over the next few weeks. Master was pleased with the result, and Ben admired the design, not that his opinion really mattered as his head was merely the canvas for Master‘s artwork.

The months passed and Ben settled well into his new life. His septum piercing had been stretched up and he now wore a thick segment ring through his nose. The padlock and chain had been replaced by a shiny steel collar with a keyless lock - once fitted it could never be removed. Most of his time was occupied with domestic chores, cleaning the house, working in the garden and often cooking for Master. He became trusted, to the extent that he was no longer locked into his room at night or when Master left the house. He was always obedient and careful in his duties, so punishment whippings became non-existent.

The cock torment sessions on the bench continued once or twice a week. These sometimes lasted for more than two hours before the sweating, writhing and very desperate slave was allowed to reach orgasm.

The head tattoos healed really well, so one morning Master decided to resume the enforced inking, and Ben acquired a moko type tattoo that extended from his lower lip to underneath his chin. It was based on the same bold tribal design as his biceps and head, and three days later was followed by a tattoo right across his forehead. It took a whole afternoon to complete and Ben thought the agony of the pain would never end. That evening he kept visiting the mirror in the back hall and saw the encroachment of ink across his face with a horrified fascination. The design on his head didn’t worry him because he figured that in the future, if released from slavery like his three predecessors had been, he could let his hair grow to conceal it or wear a hat. Or he might maintain a shaved head because he’d got used to being bald and quite liked the tattoo anyway. The facial tattoos were a different matter; they couldn’t be concealed and would always be symbolic of Ben’s current status as an owned slave.

Master had already created designs for Ben’s cheeks and was keen to proceed, but the work on his forehead had caused swelling around the eyes so further inking had to wait a week. One week later Ben’s cheeks were tattooed with the bold tribal design, radiating out from the sides of his nose towards his ears. Another three weeks and all was healed, and Master decided the tattooing was complete. Any further work would detract from what had already been accomplished. Master took photographs of Ben’s head from different angles, and Ben was relieved he wouldn’t have to endure any more tattooing.

One day in the early spring Master went into town to attend an auction as there was a painting he was keen to acquire. Ben decided to use his absence to clean the upstairs of the house. While dusting the bookcase in Master’s study Ben moved a book at the end of one of the shelves and discovered a small lever. He pushed the lever and that section of the bookcase swung forward on hidden hinges, revealing a set of display shelves in the recess.

Fixed to the back wall of the recess were photographs of young men, then more photographs of what appeared to be the same men but with shaved and heavily tattooed heads, and heavy rings through their noses. One man was wearing a rubber body suit in both his pictures; in the first photo he grinned confidently under his crew-cut hair, in the second photo his face and bald head were extensively tattooed. The heavy black tattoos looked striking against the shiny black rubber. In front of the pictures was a curious collection of items. There were three small jars, each containing a pair of ovoid objects in clear fluid, and what looked like three shrunken heads about the size of tennis balls, with markings on the heads that matched the tattoos in the photos. Ben guessed that Master had tattooed the men to match the shrunken heads.

Ben looked at the photos again. He could see that two of the guys had a number tattooed on their chest, 1 and 2. The third guy wasn’t showing his chest because he was in the rubber suit, but Ben surmised he was slave number 3. There were some pictures of Ben too, one he’d sent via the internet when he first met Master in the chatroom, showing his young clear face and mop of blond hair, and some photos Master had taken of the completed tattoo work. Ben was shocked to see before him the evidence of how much his appearance had changed in just a few months. He looked for the shrunken head that he assumed had provided the inspiration for his own tattoos, but there wasn’t one. Of course, there wouldn’t be; Master had based the designs on Ben’s existing biceps tattoos.

There were also three framed squares of what looked like parchment, about two inches square, each marked with a number from one to three. These were placed before the pictures of the three slaves.

Suddenly Ben realised the truth. The parchments bearing the numbers were the slaves’ tattooed skin. The shrunken heads were their own heads, and the objects in the jars were their testicles in preserving fluid. Ben felt sick. He’d have to get away, fast, otherwise he’d end up in this grotesque museum.

He closed the secret door, clicked the lever and replaced the book that had hidden it. He would need funds and a means of escape. A plan had to be made fast. Ben quickly looked through Master’s desk and found a stash of banknotes. He’d hide these in his wardrobe. He knew where Master kept the car keys so in the night he’d take the car and get as far away as he could. Ben had only just hidden the money and calmed himself when he heard the car’s wheels crunching on the gravel drive; Master had returned.

Master was in a cheerful mood; he’d not only bid successfully for the painting, but had won it for a lower price than he had anticipated. He told Ben they’d have some fun to celebrate, and ordered him to go to the cellar, strip and lie on the bench. Master strapped him securely as usual and proceeded to torment Ben’s cock and balls until he was close to orgasm. Master then ceased the torture, leaving Ben gasping and writhing, and disappeared from the cellar. He returned after about ten or fifteen minutes, and tenderly kissed Ben’s tattooed forehead. “You’ve been a good slave and I’ve enjoyed these sessions”, said Master gently, but now you know my secret I’m going to have to release you from slavery. You didn’t know that there is a small camera concealed in my study, so I know what you discovered in there. And I know that you stole money from my desk. The other three slaves were released painlessly; I inserted a cannula and drained their blood. They quickly became drowsy, and were deeply unconscious when I harvested their parts for my trophy collection. Of course, I made sure they were dead before I made the incision around their lower necks and peeled the skin off their heads like removing a ski-hood. You must be punished, and I will cause you intense pain before I drain off your blood”.

Ben felt cold with fear, and squealed as Master’s scalpel cut an incision around the number four tattoo on his chest. Four cuts, running with blood, made a two inch square around the tattoo. Master took two pairs of clamps, one set in each hand, and carefully peeled the tattooed skin off Ben’s chest. Ben screamed and begged for mercy, but master calmly continued, then placed the skin in a small bowl. “I’ll take these as well” said Master, pulling on Ben’s left nipple ring and slicing through the flesh behind his nipple. He dropped nipple into another bowl, and the ring clanked on the metal, then he did the same with the right nipple. Ben was screaming, sobbing and pleading, but Master continued relentlessly. The slave was about to die so Master wasn’t planning to waste time now with the niceties of medical procedures. He grabbed Ben’s balls and scrotum and pulled them firmly away from his body, then using the scalpel with a swift sawing motion he cut straight through the scrotum and cords, then dropped the entire package, the scrotum with the balls still inside, into the bowl alongside Ben’s nipples. Ben’s scream of agony turned to vomiting, and he began to choke. Master quickly inserted a cannula into each of Ben’s arms, and Ben’s life blood flowed through the tubes down to the drain in the floor.

Later that year, on a sunny winter afternoon, Master was in his study viewing his collection. In front of the pictures of Ben there was now a small glass jar containing his testicles, a smaller one containing his nipples and their rings, and a framed square of what looked like parchment marked with a number 4. There was also a shrunken head, tattooed and with a small ring through its nose. The large ring had been removed because it was too large for the current size of Ben’s head.

Master closed the secret display case and wandered over to the window. He could see a young man clearing snow from the terrace. The bright winter sunshine glinted on the ring through his nose, the ring that had already adorned the noses of four other young men. Master looked with pleasure at the bold zebra-like stripes that started on the man’s nose and undulated across his cheeks and forehead. As the man leaned forward, he revealed that his entire head was tattooed with the zebra stripes. Master knew that under his clothes, on the left side of his chest, he was tattooed with a large number 5. “Very soon now”, thought Master, “very soon”.