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Chapter 1 - The Business of Love.

Slavery, of course, is illegal. It’s been against the law since the Thirteenth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States was ratified in 1865. There are no slaves in America today. There are, however, Personal Companions.

Personal Companions - more commonly known as PCs in modern usage - are not slaves. They are more like indentured servants. Men and women who, for whatever social or economic reason, have been forced to contractually cede their bodies to the whims of another. But anyone in the industry will quickly point out, as many times as needed, that PCs are NOT slaves.

The really ironic thing is that the legalization of PC contracts came about for purely altruistic reasons. Back in the 1960’s and 70’s a group of kind-hearted do-gooders became aware of the fact that indentured serviture was still widely practiced in various parts of the third world and these folks decided to do what little they could to help the poor people who were subjected to this abhorrent plight. They formed a charitable consortium that quietly started to buy up the contracts of these people and then brought them from their homes in the middle east and asia to America. Once the servants were here they were provided for, given jobs and homes, and were helped to attain US citizenship. As soon as they were established, the do-gooders who’d purchased the servant’s contract would free them. It was a noble cause.

Unfortunately, the do-gooders gradually became too good at their good deeds and their cause rapidly became a widespread endeavor. Then some enterprising slumlord somewhere in the still-feudal realms of the third world got it into his head to recoup some of his lost labor force by adding in a new provision to the contracts of his servants. The new clause said that before the servant’s contract could be terminated, if said termination was to occur prior to the natural expiration of the original time period called for in the agreement, that the originating employer would have first rights of refusal to repurchase the contract for some minimal price. The result of this new provision was that the do-gooders could no longer purchase these contracts, take the servants to America and then set them free without the risk of the original employer coming in and claiming the right to reindenture the person.

There followed a period of intense litigation over the validity of these contract clauses. There were significant international law issues discussed and debated, not only in this country but all across the globe. There were even threats of war if the US failed to uphold the contractual rights of the citizens of whatever bully-boy third world country was bucking for this right. The United Nations was ultimately brought in to negotiate a settlement. It was fucking chaos.

Eventually, a less than brilliant junior senator from some backwater state decided to be helpful. He appended a rider, added to a completely unrelated but vitally necessary bill that was a shoe in to be passed, which provided that employment agreements for certain personal services contracts would be upheld in the US and could not be discontinued prior to their original termination dates. No doubt, the senator in question thought that this would resolve all the costly litigation and halt the threats of international embargoes, since the foreign interests could now rest assured that nobody in the US was trying to undermine their sovereign contractual authority. Simple, right? The bill passed in the wee hours of the morning without anyone bothering to analyze the last minute rider and the whole thing was a done deal. It was enacted, signed into law and completely forgotten about until it was far too late to do anything. Nobody had even bothered to think through the consequences of that one tersely worded rider. It seemed like a perfectly straight-forward and easy solution to everyone's problems . . .

. . . Until an enterprising Capitalist with questionable morals read that newly fledged law and had a brainstorm. Basically, the way the rider - now law - was written, it now seemed possible to contractually obligate an individual to be one’s personal servant and, according to federal law, that contract could NOT be terminated. The wording on the new law was just vague enough that it could encompass a broad range of personal service contracts. So, Mr. Capitalist decided to put the law to the test and immediately went out and signed up all his ‘girls’ under officially legal contracts. Before you knew it, this brilliant idea was being taken up by Capitalists all over the country. There were corporations formed to enable more of these wonderful contracts. There were other corporations formed to provide support for the corporations doing the contracting. And, before you knew it, there was an entire industry formed that revolved solely around the Personal Service Contract.

At first the do-gooders who’d started all this were far too caught up in the overseas fall out from the new law, and the consequences to their international charitable actions, to realize what was happening in their own backyards. In the end there were several landmark legal decisions - dealing solely with the international situation - that, for one reason or another, upheld the new law. The international strife was resolved accordingly and the do-gooders reluctantly admitted that they could no longer buy these foreign contracts and thus help their beleaguered third world brethren. But, by the time these concerned citizens gave up the international fight, the domestic trade in the exact same type of unconscionable contract had become firmly entrenched. And, since capitalism is king in this country, once there were publicly held corporations involved, with respectable citizens running things, and the annual revenue from the Personal Service Contract Industry started to rival that of the Banking Industry, there was very little that the do-gooders could do. Especially since the Capitalists seized on those prior landmark legal rulings to support their own efforts. New litigation ensued and the fledgling industry’s rights continued to be upheld because nobody would dare to infringe on the rights of fine upstanding businessmen to make as much money as they possibly could regardless of the questionable morality underlying their business practices. So the industry grew even more. And so on, and so forth, ad infinitum.

By the second decade of the Twenty-first Century - more than fifty years after all this had started - it had become so commonplace to see and hear about PCs that the average person no longer cared very much about it. It wasn’t a good thing - pretty much everyone agreed on that. But, much like the hated Insurance Industry, there didn’t seem to be anything that could be done about it. You just had to deal with it and hope that somebody else, someday, would figure out a better way. But nobody ever did. And in the meantime, if you couldn’t beat it, you might as well join in and make a buck off it just like everyone else.

Which is how Brian Kinney managed to get himself involved in the whole mess.

*********

“Fuck this, Gardner. I don’t want to get in bed with these guys,” Brian complained, shaking his head as he looked through the file folder of information that his boss had handed him.

“Well, luckily, that’s not your call to make, Kinney,” Gardner Vance replied scathingly. “The annual revenue for the PC Industry last year was over $500 billion. That’s ‘Billion’ with a capital ‘B’. And I’m not going to pass up the chance to get a foot in the door just because you have fucking scruples.” He reached over and pointed to a particularly juicy factoid on the printout Brian was currently perusing. “PC Clearinghouse, Inc. is the biggest PC auction house in the region - they operate facilities in five states and seven major cities including Columbus, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia and Baltimore. And since they’re one of only three licensed brokerage firms in the state, they’re poised to get even bigger in the not too distant future. Their annual marketing budget for next year alone is more money than you or I have made in our entire lives. Which is why VanGuard NEEDS this account, Kinney. If we can rope PC Clearinghouse in then we’ll never have to worry about money ever again. So I don’t give a flying fart about who you have to get into bed with - you will go to this fucking auction, you will schmooze Walter Lapointe and all his rich friends, and you WILL win this account for VanGuard. If you don’t, you will need to find a new job.”

Brian wanted to tell his smarmy boss to go to hell. If the sleazewad wanted these equally sleazy losers as his clients he should go schmooze them himself. Brian didn’t want to spend his time at some fucking PC auction. It’s not that he had anything against PCs per se, but he found the whole industry borderline distasteful. Generally speaking, Brian looked down his nose at anyone who had to pay to get laid - and that included any rich fuck who would buy himself a PC. It didn’t matter that the average PC cost more than a modest-sized home. As far as he was concerned, it was still paying for sex.

Brian didn’t want to get involved in anything to do with any part of that scene and he was surprised that even Gardner would stoop that low. Although, knowing Vance, he probably wouldn’t care where the fuck the money came from as long as it was cold and green. He was the greediest fucker Brian had ever met. However, Brian wasn’t exactly in a position to object either. He liked his job. He also liked that his well-paid job provided him the freedom to live his life in whatever way he chose. And he liked the potential bonus that he’d get if he signed this particular client. That money would go a long way towards the nest egg Brian was building so that he could eventually strike out on his own, open his own agency and subsequently never have to take sleazy clients like this ever again.

“Fine. I’ll go to your fucking whore auction, Gardner. But you’re going to have to spring for a new Armani tux for me to wear AND a limo to and from the event for me and Cynthia. Plus, when I sign this guy, I want double the regular bonus - twenty percent of the initial contract, not ten,” Brian negotiated, slapping the file onto his desk so that he could stare Vance down.

“Fifteen,” Vance countered.

“Twenty, or you can go yourself,” Brian remained firm, knowing - via Cynthia’s unerring grasp of the office grapevine - that Gardner was required to be at his wife’s grandparents’ fiftieth wedding celebration that night and that, if he didn’t attend, he’d be out looking for wife number five before the end of the month.

“Fine. Twenty. But I want you to not only sign Lapointe but also bring back the names of at least five of his buddies. These auctions always pull a shitload of rich corporate types as well as some big-name politicos. I even heard that Senator Stockwell is slated to attend. I wouldn’t mind getting an in with his campaign and having access to his donor lists,” Gardner ordered, getting to his feet with a satisfied air as if already imagining the money that would soon be lining his pockets.

**********

“I still can’t believe you talked ME into going to this thing,” Cynthia was still pouting, her arms crossed angrily over her chest, ruining the lines of the sleek red Donna Karan gown that Brian had paid for using VanGuard’s expense account. “You know I’m APC! I’ve fucking protested at this self-same facility on more than one occasion. If anyone from the APC Crusaders sees me here I’ll be fucking banned from the organization for life.”

“I know you’re Anti-Personal Companion, Cyn, and I wouldn’t have asked you to come with me tonight if I didn’t really need you,” Brian tried to calm his assistant. “It’s not like I’m Pro-PC myself, you know. I don’t really want to be here any more than you do. But fucking Vance didn’t give me any choice. And if I lose my job, you can bet your fucking Manolos that you’ll end up on the unemployment line too. So we just need to make the best of it. We get in, sign the client and get the fuck out as fast as possible. And then we hand the account off to some flunky and hopefully never have to deal with it again.” When Cynthia still didn’t look placated, Brian decided to try a different tack. “Think of it as research. You’re getting an insider’s look at the industry that none of your other APC friends could ever hope for. Maybe you’ll learn some vital piece of info that you can use in your next protest or something. You know, take them down from the inside.”

“Fuck you, Boss,” Cynthia rejoined, but at the same time she looked a little mollified, leaving Brian reassured that his highly efficient assistant would be on board for the evening.

Which was good because right then the limo pulled to a stop in front of the auction house. The chauffeur trotted around to the curbside door, holding it open for both passengers and then escorting them the few feet up the staircase until they arrived at the elegant red carpet that had been rolled out to meet them. Brian rolled his eyes and grimaced. He’d known these affairs were luxurious but this was fucking ridiculous. It felt like they were attending some Hollywood premiere or something, not a mere auction. Definitely not something as inherently objectionable as the sale of human beings. What the fuck did he know, though.

As soon as their names were checked off the security list by the doorman, a tuxedo-clad usher led them to their seats at the VIP table in the very front of the large main hall. Vance had made sure that they would be seated with Lapointe and his closest cronies for the evening. All the better to win that contract, Mr. Kinney. As they approached, Cynthia, that all-knowing font of information, quietly named off each of the big wigs that were already seated at the large oval table. Walter Lapointe was seated at one of the ends of the oval. From this distance, the man looked like a short, overfed, balding troll who’d been stuffed into a tux jacket that was two sizes too small for his huge belly. Next to Lapointe was a much more dapper gentleman with the over-polished look, perfect hair and practised smile that said right away he was either a used car salesman or a politician. Cynthia whispered that this was Senator Stockwell. Brian shoulda figured. She quickly named off the three other men either seated at the table or standing behind their chairs chatting, all of whom were on Vance’s list of rich potential clients that Brian needed to suck up to. Brian sighed. It was going to be a long night, but at least they were all seated at the same table so he wouldn’t have to track them down.

“Walter Lapointe, I take it,” Brian said with his most charming Kinney smile as he reached out to shake the troll’s hand. “Brian Kinney. Thanks for having us. Gardner Vance mentioned that this was going to be one hell of a shindig but I don’t think he did the affair justice. You’ve pulled out all the stops here tonight,” Brian started in on the schmooze with full force.

He quickly went around the table and introduced himself to the rest of the guests, impressing them all with the fact that he already knew their names, before turning and introducing Cynthia. The men at the table all treated the comely lady with extra chivalry. There were actually very few women at the event, so they all got to pay court to Cynthia en masse. She tolerated the unwelcome attention with her usual flair, and only Brian, who knew her extremely well, could sense the hidden contempt she felt for each and every one of these men.

There followed an extended period of socialization, with attentive waiters making sure that every guest’s glass was kept filled and every plate was laden with sumptuous appetizers, while the movers and shakers in the crowd moved and shook. Brian did his own fair share of shaking, handing out enough business cards to wallpaper half his office and making nice with more people than he could ever remember. If it weren’t for Cynthia and her mini-tablet computer keeping track of them all, Brian would have been lost.

Brian spent a large portion of this time yakking it up with James Stockwell. Stockwell was one of the PC Industry’s primary backers in Washington. The top ten percent of his political donors were almost all industry CEOs and insiders. He’d worked hand in hand with their lobbyists for years to push through legislation that was favorable to their political agenda and to successfully bury any opposition forces. Stockwell himself didn’t own a PC but he was known to attend the parties of all his friends who did. And somehow the man still managed to keep his conservative, family-friendly constituency placated. Brian didn’t know how he did it, but it was fairly impressive. All Brian DID know was that the man was so fucking oily that just sitting next to him for a prolonged period made the adman feel like he needed a long, hot, cleansing shower. Brian was therefore grateful when the arrival of the remaining guest at their table provided a distraction that let him get up and move away from Stockwell’s side.

“Brian, let me introduce you to one of my oldest friends,” Lapointe offered, grabbing the newcomer’s elbow to guide him over towards the spot where Brian was now standing. “Howard Bellweather, this newcomer is Brian Kinney. He’s with VanGuard Advertising and, if what I’ve seen so far holds true, he’s the man who’s going to be handling all my marketing from here on out. Brian, Howard here is one of the country’s most brilliant modern authors . . . as well as one of my best customers. You two should definitely talk. I’m sure Howie could use some help with the PR for his new book.”

Brian shook the man’s hand without flinching even though the mere touch of the large, slightly sweaty palm made his stomach lurch. The simpering smile, the suggestive leer in the watery grey-blue eyes and the fact that the man was standing just a shade too close added to Brian’s immediate discomfort. But there was something else - something instinctual - that caused Brian to hate the man before he’d even really met him. Brian had met other men in the past that elicited the same visceral reaction, and he’d learned to listen to his gut. Every single one of those men had proven to be just as evil as he thought they would be. He didn’t doubt that Howard Bellweather would somehow turn out to be just as vile.

Quickly excusing himself, Brian made his way around the table to where Cynthia was waiting for him. She leaned down, pretending to reach below the table for her purse so that she could whisper a warning to her boss without being observed. “Bellweather has one of the largest collections of PCs in the state. He’s got a virtual seraglio set up at his country estate located just outside Pittsburgh in rural West Virginia. According to my APC contacts, he’s not only the practice’s biggest advocate but also one of the worst PC owners you could imagine. If he didn’t have friends in very influential places, he would have been brought up on Cruelty charges on more than a few occasions over the past decade,” Cynthia’s voice dripped with repugnance as she recited the man’s failings. “He might look and talk like one of society’s elite, but if you ask me he’s just another fucking monster in designer duds.”

Following Bellweather’s advent, the talk around the VIP table turned to a listing of all the supposed benefits that had arisen as a result of the PC trade. It all sounded like hokum to Brian, but maybe he was biased because of his burgeoning dislike of the prime instigator of the conversation. He tried to remain aloof from the discussion but was eventually pulled into it anyway when Lapointe directed the next point at his new advertising advisor.

“That’s exactly what I want to stress for our next advertising campaign, Howie. Are you listening to all this Kinney? Hell, you should probably be taking notes, ‘cause Howie is making some excellent points here,” Lapointe enthusiastically endorsed the smarmy writer’s words.

“I’m not the only one who has advocated the benefits of the PC trade, Walt,” Bellweather spouted his PC propaganda. “I don’t think there’s any dispute that the rise of PCs has made street prostitution almost non-existent, which has gone a long way towards helping to clean up the streets in most large metropolitan areas. Because of the legalization of PCs there’s less crime on the streets, less drug use and a lot less general violence. It’s an uncontroverted fact that national STD rates have dropped by more than half since PCs - who are required by law to be tested every three months - became prevalent. Plus, our PCs today are healthier and happier than ever because the industry is so well regulated. Hell, with all the laws out there governing PC’s care, they’re almost better protected than most of us regular citizens.”

Brian wasn’t really buying all the boosterism, but he still had to listen. This was the angle that the client wanted him to pursue and the client was ALWAYS right. Right? So Brian would listen and he’d use what he heard as the basis for the initial pitch he’d be making. If it helped him rope in PC Clearinghouse and got Vance off his ass, he supposed it would be worth the time he had to spend drowning in the drivel that was currently making his ears ache.

Thankfully, that was about the time that the servers began to bring out dinner, which broke up the conversation and forced Bellweather to return to his seat at the far end of the table. The food was excellent. Lapointe obviously didn’t spare money on either his chef or the menu. Brian’s baked salmon and brie fillets were mouthwatering. The asparagus was tender and mild-flavored. The wild rice pilaf was savory. And it was all artistically displayed on the plates as if the meal was going to be served to the world’s pickiest food critic. Brian, who was normally a finicky eater, found himself relishing the meal.

The only bad thing about this portion of the proceedings was that, halfway through dinner, the PC Handlers began to bring out the stock that would be auctioned off later. While the guests were gluttonously scarfing down their gourmet meals, the Handlers led the boys around to the various tables, thus allowing the potential buyers to look over the goods. Brian found himself distracted from his delicious food as the constant parade of handsome young men wound past their table.

While PCs came in all genders, shapes, sizes and orientations, this particular auction was only for male PCs who were described as predominantly attracted to same sex partners. Not that the PCs would be given the choice of who their partners were out in the real world, but this group was at least sold under the premise that they’d perform better under those conditions. Brian therefore felt right at home amongst the group.

The panoply of PCs on display this evening were decidedly all excellent specimens of the male half of the species. There were all kinds of excellent too. Hard, well-toned, muscled bodies. Tall, sinewy, swimmer’s bodies. Compact bodies that looked like they were built for hard use. Even delicate, effeminate, waifish bodies that looked more like women than many females of Brian’s acquaintance. There were older bodies, younger bodies and even some that seemed extremely young. None of the bodies had any visible flaws. And all of these bodies were marched around the hall, buck naked, clad only in leather collars, with their goods on full display for all to see.

Despite the fact that Brian had so far found the entire evening to be borderline degrading and distasteful, he couldn’t help admiring the string of gorgeous young men. If they weren’t PCs, Brian would have been more than happy to take any one of them off for a night of debauchery. He felt vaguely disgusted with himself when he realized he was half-hard despite the unpleasant circumstances underlying the enticing display.

There were more than thirty PCs on the program that evening so it took quite a while for them to all circulate through the hall. After a bit, a smarmy-looking Handler with a long face and thinning, too-long, mousey-brown curls approached the VIP table with another boy for the guests to check out. This model turned out to be a very pretty, very young, blond boy, who was wearing an unusual harness contraption that covered his ass at the same time it acted as a cock ring for his lovely, and enticingly-erect, dark pink dick. Brian found himself quite impressed with the boy’s cock size, seeing as the frame it was attached to was small and lean and, while moderately well toned, looked almost delicate. Brian found himself more than just a little attracted to this particular body.

Unfortunately, so was Bellweather, who jumped up from his seat with a lustful eagerness that was slightly creepy coming from the significantly older man.

Bellweather scampered over to the handler, who he must have been familiar with since he called the man by name.  “Gary Sapperstein, you old rascal, you. What HAVE you got here? This one looks even more delicious than the excellent meal Walt’s just served us. Maybe I can have the boy for dessert instead?” The rest of the table’s inhabitants tittered with laughter at this supposed joke. “So, Gary, tell me everything about this tasty mouthful.”

The Handler proceeded to detail the boy’s statistics with a businesslike air. Sapperstein announced that the kid went by the designation ‘J327’ and was a seventeen-year-old, certified virgin with strong homosexual tendencies. Sapperstein advised he had only had the boy for about a year or so, which meant he was only minimally trained by industry standards. J327 had been contracted out by his father after the boy was attacked and injured by a classmate and the father couldn’t pay for the hospital bills to treat him. Sapperstein claimed to have taken pity on the boy, saying that he had been so saddened by the sweet young man’s plight that he had probably overpaid the father. That being said, Sapperstein had taken over the boy’s care and, once he’d recovered, had started him on an accelerated training program.

The entire time Gary had been speaking, the boy had remained completely still, standing with his legs slightly spread, his hands cuffed securely behind his back and his head tilted forward, eyes down, betraying no reaction whatsoever to anything that was said about him. Despite the overt obedience, Brian thought that something in the boy’s stance - maybe the way he was holding his shoulders or the rigidness of his pose - evinced a trace of defiance. The boy seemed beaten down, wary, but not yet cowed. Brian found that to be a provocative combination. It was enough to cause him to give the boy more than the cursory glance he’d given the other PCs that had been marched past the table so far.

While Brian was contemplating this enigma, The Sapp was busy answering the table’s many questions about the boy. Bellweather had asked several questions focused on the attack and the boy’s subsequent recovery, delving into the particulars of his injuries as if to ascertain that he truly had no lasting health problems. Sapperstein assured everyone that there were no significant physical disabilities as a result of the attack. When pressed further, Gary did admit that the boy seemed a tad bit simple-minded and explained that, because of the head trauma incurred, the PC didn’t remember much from his prior life.

“But, hey, that’s not really any loss, right?” Gary joked with Bellweather, digging an elbow playfully into the potential buyer’s ribs “Nobody buys a PC for their fucking brains, do they? As long as the rest of the equipment works just fine, who the hell cares about what’s in the boy’s head.” The VIPs all laughed at that as if it was the funniest joke ever told, and Sapperstein followed it up by putting his arm around the boy’s shoulders and giving him what passed for an affectionate squeeze.

Brian noted that the boy visibly flinched at the Handler’s touch. While he remained properly submissive throughout this entire exchange, Brian could sense that the youth was scared of Sapperstein. J327 had only looked up once, right at the end of the Handler’s spiel - catching Brian’s eye very briefly and then quickly looking down when The Sapp noticed the small movement and roughly yanked on the chain linked to the collar around the boy’s neck. The bright gemstone blue eyes that had penetrated his own in that short instant, however, had seemed to connect with Brian in some incomprehensible way. Brian was unsure what message had been conveyed, but he knew that there was something in this boy that was special.

Not that he knew what the fuck to do about it right then, though.

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