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Tim Ruskin was a physical kind of guy. Unlike just about everyone else, he revelled in the sheer, sweaty, muscle straining experience of hard manual labor. Loving the feel of fresh air and the mild kiss of sun on his bare skin, Tim often went about his work stripped to nothing but a tight pair of shorts over his jockeys and a pair of tennis shoes (without socks). He knew damn well that he was uncommonly good looking and in top physical condition; with a boyish face, crewcut fair hair, hard, rounded muscle under flawless, lightly tanned skin sporting a manly sprinkle of dark blond fur on legs, forearms, deep chest and belly… He also knew perfectly well that more than one passerby would have loved to see what he packed into his tight shorts (especially when he unselfconsciously dipped a hand beneath the waistband to scratch amid the short thatch of pubes, allowing just the timberline into the bright light of day). Tim didn’t really care- even when he caught the occasional guy, eyes all glassy, checking him out.
Maybe he should have.
The MOSLA operative, after a very brief period of surveillance, took Tim out with a minimum of effort. His friends and family, of course, never saw him again and were quite distraught and the story of the fit young laborer’s sudden disappearance nearly made the front page of more than one urban newspaper.
A year after his abduction and incarceration at the MOSLA training center, Tim was brought to the showroom and sold within an hour.