Date: Thu, 15 Dec 2005 09:14:55 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Someone Has To Do It, Part One

Someone Has To Do It

By Pete Brown        petebrownuk @ yahoo.com


Read all of Pete's stories at
groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownsetoticstries


Part 1


My alarm went off at six.  Another fucking day - and
it's going to be a bad one.  My head's splitting as I
know I had just a couple more than I should have last
night.  And it's "new arrivals" day, which always
makes it hard when it comes around every eight weeks.
I lie there for minute, wondering whether to do
something about my morning hard-on - I slide my 'skin
up and down once or twice, enjoying the sensation as
it slips on and off my cock head, and letting my
fingers caress the silky hardness of my shaft, but I
know I don't really have time as the boss is really
tough on those of us who don't punch in on time,
especially on "new arrivals" day.  So I throw the
bedclothes off, and stride towards the shower,
scratching my balls as I go as guys do in the morning,
and I suppose I'm glad I do shave them, even though
it's a lot of trouble to keep them smooth, as they do
feel so much better when I'm holding them like this
than they did when I used to let the hair grow
naturally - that's one thing I learned soon after I
took this fucking job, at least.

The shower' helps a bit, but when I look around the
bathroom I have to agree it's pretty bad - I mean,
it's OK for a guy living by himself, but the last time
I brought a woman back I noticed she kind of curled
her lip up in distaste when she saw all my stuff
around, the state of the towels, and the layer of dust
and dried skin everywhere.  Or was that when she saw
the unmade bed, with the sheets all crumpled?  I
always thought that sheets that had been slept in were
kind of sexy, as they'd be impregnated with my male
scent - all that sweat and cum, and I guess the odd
drop of piss that leaks from my prick if I've not
shaken it off well enough if I've had to get up in I
the night to empty a full bladder after a night's
drinking.  I suppose that's why some blokes go to bed
in boxer shorts and stuff, as it catches them, but I
like to sleep totally naked.   Still, I haven't been
having too much success with women recently - I wonder
if the bitches have been talking, and telling each
other about my place and how it's not all that nice to
come back to?  You'd have thought that that coming
back to a real man's place and having a really good
time would more than compensate for that, wouldn't
you?  I mean, if you want some fancy lawyer or
accountant to hire a swanky hotel room that's
spotless, you're not likely to get such good sex as
coming back to a real man's lair, a man with a good
body and a big cock, and who knows how to use it.

Still, no time to lose, as I mustn't be late, so I
stand there and scrape away at the rough stubble all
over my face - that's one of my problems, as I've got
such a tough beard that the "five o'clock shadow"
starts around noon as my thick black hair really does
show up.  The boss is fanatical about neatness, as he
says it sets a good example, and I daren't go in
unshaven, though, so to save a bit of time I carry on
shaving as I let some piss trickle down into the basin
as I stand there.  I've found I can save two or three
minutes in the morning by pissing as  I shower, and
then having that "second one" as I stand there shaving
- although I don't much like the smell as the running
hot water I shave with mixes with my piss before it
runs down the waste.  I'd thought of saving more time
by having my hair cropped really short, as I used to
have it when I was in the Marines, but the boss says
that we need to "differentiate ourselves" and so
although it's short, I still need to pull my fingers
through it to put in some sort of order, and then I'm
ready to dress.

It's a fucking nuisance, actually, this job.  But I
suppose I'm lucky to have anything at all at my age,
without any university education.  The boss insists on
clean, pressed uniforms every day and although they
get washed and ironed at work, I have to remember to
bring them home with me.  And of course sometimes I
forget, and have to go back, or have to get up
specially early to be able to change at work as the
boss would dock my wages if he saw me in a crumpled
uniform, or one with yesterday's sweat stains still on
it.  I've still got to launder my own cotton boxers,
though, and I seem to have fucked up again as there's
no clean ones in the drawer, so it's wearing
yesterday's for a second time - not too bad, though,
as there's no skid marks or dried piss, as I'm careful
that way.  I can't do anything about the slight smell
of sweat, though, as it was a hot day yesterday.  I
have to admit the boss is right, though:  we do look
good in the uniform - the dark green khaki colour
suits most blokes' colouring, and the crisp, short
sleeved shirt with the epaulets and the matching
shorts cut well above the knee do show off my body
quite well - at first, I'd hated wearing these short
shorts, as they just aren't the kind of things you see
men wearing in the streets where universally men tend
to wear shorts cut mid-calf, but around here it's
almost a mark of respect as it signals that we're from
the base.  It's almost like being back in the service,
I suppose - they're really keen on you being neat and
tidy when you're not on combat duty, as you may know:
guys around Marines bases always look crisp and neat,
don't they?  I reckon that when I do pull a woman it's
probably because she's seen my lean, tight body in the
uniform, so I suppose I shouldn't complain.

The boots will do - a bit dusty, but the boss probably
won't notice and I can get them cleaned up later - and
it doesn't really matter that the socks have to be
yesterday's as well, as there aren't any clean ones:
no one is going to be sniffing at my feet today!  And
then once I've threaded the thick leather belt through
my shorts, I'm ready.  House keys, car keys,
wallet.... And I'm away.

It's still early, and so the commuter traffic into the
outskirts of London hasn't really started yet and,
anyway, I'm kind of heading out and around and so I
don't usually get held up except for other "cross
commuters" like me, heading from one suburb to
another.  My apartment's not in the best place, as I
can't afford to live out in the really leafy bits
where the base is, so it's this ride every morning and
evening.  Still, there's my usual McDonalds on the way
and I pull in to the drive-through lane, although it's
tricky in my truck as it's so wide:  I reckon a big
guy needs to drive a big truck, or else he looks
stupid.  There's some stupid woman in front of me who
can't seem to make up her mind as he just sits there
at the window, and seems to be having a conversation
with the server - for fuck's sake, what's so hard
about choosing your breakfast?  And who wants to talk
to a McDonald's server anyway?  It was bad enough when
you occasionally got a pretty university girl, but
now.... Well - it's mostly indentured servants anyway!
 My head's cleared a bit by now from the beers so I
wonder whether to have just my usual one sausage
McMuffin, or two - I didn't eat much last night, I
think, and with my big, lanky frame there's not much
danger of a second one making me fat.  I work hard
physically anyway, so it's not like some of hose tubs
of lard you see here who take the full breakfast just
because it's on special offer, then eat all the greasy
hash browns and sauces and stuff and then go and sit
at an office desk all day.  It wouldn't be so bad if,
like me, they were on their feet all day and running
around....    I decide on two, and a giant coffee, as
"arrivals day" can make it hard to take time out for a
proper lunch, and  I wolf them down as I drive along .

There's still spaces in the front row of the employee
car park, which is good, and I stride in through the
pass gate, waving to Charlie the guard as I do.  It's
easy to get into the base, but you try getting out
without a valid ID card and stuff - the two sequential
gates will both lock, and you can only be released by
the guards.   Lieutenant Andrews is parking at the
same time as me, and I wave at him as I usually do,
but the fucker doesn't even acknowledge me.  It's not
right -  he knows I was in the Marines, after all, and
I think he ought to have a bit of respect for that.
It's not my fault I'm having to do this shit job,
after all - when I joined up at eighteen I thought I
had a job for life, and I could do something I really
liked until I left at about fifty with enough money to
buy a pub, or something.   But the constant defence
cutbacks and the so-called "peace" where we rely on
those wimps in the UN to do everything, meant they
didn't renew my enlistment at the end of the first
fifteen year term.  So there I was,  thirty-three
years old, no job, and no prospects of getting one -
whilst I was soldiering away everyone else seemed to
be getting a college education, and without it,
there's no work at all.  Well, things have changed,
haven't they - all the stuff guys like me would have
done in the past is now done by slaves, or indentured
servants, to give them their proper name, I suppose.
So I'm lucky to have this, even though it's not what I
would have chosen.  And I know a lot of people sneer
at guys who work in this area, but that Lieutenant
shouldn't be one of them - it's his men who provide
the security to stop them escaping, and if he thinks
I'm working in a shit job, well, what's he doing?

 In the locker room my mate Rob is already there, and
he's ready to go - typical of Rob:  he's so organised,
and he wouldn't be wearing yesterday's boxer shorts or
anything (and in any case I expect his wife, Julie,
has them all laid out for him anyway.  I can't help
wondering whether Rob has fucked her this morning, or
did he do it last night after he'd left the bar hours
before I did?  He's a bit of a randy bugger, almost as
bad as me at chatting up the women, and I think that
if he wasn't so loyal to Julie he'd be able to score
most nights as he takes time to listen to what they
have to say, tells them he likes kids (he's got three,
so I suppose he must do), and does all that other "new
man" stuff.  Whereas me, well, after a few beers, all
I want to do is fuck - and why isn't it that the women
aren't like men like that?  It's not as if a casual
fuck is going to hurt anyone, is it?  And it's natural
for men to need it, and they don't always want to be
spinning a line about "settling down" and all that
crap before they can get a woman into bed.

Rob slaps me on the back and says "Jesus, Steve!
Cheer up.  Head still aching?  It's a great morning,
and a new intake.... How long were you at the bar
after I left?  Did you score?  You ought to find a
nice girl like Julie and settle down, then you'd get
it as often as I do!"

I mumble something back and fiddle with the
combination on my locker, as Rob stands there and
starts telling me about the latest exploits of Darren
- his eldest - who's just started school.  I'm sure
the little guy is quite bright, but to hear Rob talk
you'd think he ought already to be saving for Eton and
Oxford - not that there's much chance of that, as they
pay us a pittance down here and I sometimes wonder how
Rob manages that house, Julie, and the kids on our
wages - I have a hard enough time managing, and
there's only one of me!  I keep looking at him as I
fumble to put all my kit on to my belt, and he seems
the usual cheerful Rob, immaculately turned out,
always smiling, and somehow this all creates an air of
a bloke who's really in control of himself and his
life. He's like one of those "ideal husbands" you see
on the TV shows, who helps around the house, plays
with the kids, is a great lover to his wife ("and I'm
her best friend", as he says) and is really handsome.
Well, at least in the latter stakes I can agree as
he's the same height as me, at six four, has the same
wide shouldered slim waist build as me, but has a
shock of dark blond hair in stead of my black - and
like a lot of blondes, he's not got much of it as he's
smooth-chested, has only a thin coating on his arms
and legs, and his cock, although respectably large,
like mine, pokes out from only a straggly patch of
thin pubes instead of emerging from a veritable
forest, as mine does!

I've got my phone, panic alarm, prod and all the other
stuff a guard needs hung on my belt now, though, and
we go out into the warm morning sunshine and stand
around chatting to the other blokes on our shift.  The
trucks bringing today's new intake must have arrived
overnight as they're already parked at the edge of the
parade ground, and we can hear shuffling and muttering
sounds coming from them just faintly.  There's that
sense of anticipation that's always around on "new
arrivals" day as most of us have a preferred kind of
man we like to work on.  But until the truck doors
have been opened and we've got them out, and done an
initial "sort" and the boss has handed out our
assignments, you never really know whether you're
going to have all that much fun for the next few
weeks, or not.  Personally I don't like having a group
of fat, overweight slobs - for one thing, the
programme is then extended as we can't really start
until the proper diet and hard exercise regime has
burned off most of their blubber;  but even when
they're reasonably presentable after that, I somehow
can't get the initial sight of their great rolls of
fat out of my mind, and it spoils it for me the whole
time.  Still, the boss is pretty good, and he knows
more or less what each of us likes and tries to
accommodate us as best he can within the limits of
what's been sent.  It's always amusing, for example,
to see Jeff, a real rough northern lad, angling to
take on a batch of niggas  as it's as if he thinks
he's going to redress the way they've taken over his
home town.  The boss always does split up the niggas
from the white guys as it seems to make for smoother
training, but he's always half-teasing Jeff and
threatening to spread the niggas around and make Jeff
do the fat guys!

The boss comes out of the office building then,
though, and cuts my daydreaming short, and we all line
up and stand more or less at "attention".  Most of us
come from the forces, so it's not all that hard, but
we don't make a big thing of it and there's no need to
have your fingers pointing directly down the seam of
your trousers and your eyes looking directly ahead or
any of that other stuff:  just a straight line, evenly
spaced, hands to the side, feet together.  The boss
gives us a quick inspection, and thankfully I pass as
I can't stand losing another day's pay for not having
the proper "regulation" items for work, and then he
looks a us and says "Right, gentlemen, you all know
the form by now.  This a batch of eighty, mostly from
Birmingham.  But that's pretty much of a collections
centre, so as usual we'll have some from all over the
country.  And a couple of illegals, tool, who are
finding that life in the UK is not quite as they
expected.  So let's take a look at them...."

He ordered a couple of us to go over and open the
trucks, and there was the usual thing:  it's dark in
there, so as you throw open the doors at the back, all
the prisoners blink and start to rub their eyes.  And
they've been in there for ten or twelve hours, so the
straw on the floor is stinking of their piss - and
worse.  They really are like animals, as there's a
hole in the corner of these transporters for stuff
like that to drop out directly on to the road, but
some of them don't - or won't - use it.

Some of them have a problem in jumping down as we
scream at them to get their asses on the move, as they
still look as if they're half asleep.  But one bloke -
a slim young man - seems to be in real pain and starts
moaning that he's been raped and his ass is torn and
sore.  I see there's a couple of big buck niggas in
the same truck, so it wouldn't surprise me - still,
they'll soon learn just how unpleasant that can be.  I
tell the young bloke to hang in there as they'll all
be inspected medically soon, and all of us guards
stand and tell them to line up in four ranks.

It gets so fuckingly boringly predictable - some of
them just want a quiet life (not that they'll get it!)
and they obey as best they can, trying to get some
sort of formation going.   Some, mostly the niggas,
who are here anyway probably here because of their
arrogant defiance of the law, just stand there as if
they can do what they want, and some - fortunately,
very few - are real trouble makers who shout and tell
us to fuck off.  It usually only takes two or three of
them to be "prodded" with one of our control prods at
medium power for them all to learn their first lesson,
that we give orders, and they obey!  The sight of the
three bodies thrashing around on the groomed and the
kind of strangled screams they make as every muscle in
their bodies spasms from the shock are usually enough
to convince most of them - we usually do two of the
real "trouble makers" and a nigga, as that seems to be
the msot effective.

Once the ones we prodded are somewhat recovered and
have been helped to their feet, the boss does a rough
initial sort -  as I've said, anyone who's grossly
overweight goes into one group, whether he's a nigga
or not, then groups of niggas, as they seem to respond
better if they're all together, and then "the rest" -
white blokes and orientals (although the boss will do
a further sorting of the whites in to a group of
normal Europeans and Turks, Arabs, and stuff like that
if there's enough of them), and on one memorable
occasion he did a whole group of Koreans (and fuck,
were they difficult to train!).  And then he assigns
the guards to them - Jeff, as I've said, always wants
niggas;  there's an older guy, Jerry, a Jew from
somewhere in Poland originally, who seems to like the
fat guys - we're glad of that as we don't have to work
with him all that often as their training takes
longer, as I've explained, and so our work patterns
don't often coincide;   and "regular" guys like Rob
and me, well, we get "mixed" batches.

There's a bit of horse trading goes on between us
guards then as we swap prisoners between ourselves to
"even up" our groups - well, you do want them to be as
alike as possible, as otherwise  there can be problems
in some of the more physical stuff:  on the assault
course, for example, they've got to be capable of
helping each other over the obstacles, and if you've
got very slim guys and big hunky guys, it makes it so
much more difficult (for us, not for them!).  I ended
up with a pretty average bunch - none of them was as
tall as me, and that's good, as men instinctively tend
to obey guys bigger than they are;  and they were all
at the younger end of the age range, I suppose,
although it's hard to tell until I got a chance to
look at their records tonight.  We only have men
between sixteen and fifty, and I'm thirty four, and
although I don't mind all that much, I don't want to
end up with a group all older than me as establishing
control is so much more difficult.

We have to keep a really close watch on them next, as
it can be a bit of a "flash point", even though
they've seen what a prod can do!  The boss has a loud
hailer, and he orders all of them to strip, and at
first they all do nothing - they just stand there, as
if in shock.  So he tells them again, and if there's
no movement, all of us guards kind of go in to our
groups and start shouting at them to get naked.  The
prisoners can be really fucking stupid - I mean,
doesn't it occur to them that they're not going to be
allowed to wear civilian clothes during training?  And
some of them even start to argue, and that's what
you've got to nip in the bud - any insubordination at
this point, before it gets serious.  I usually set my
prod at ten percent for this, and it's surprising what
even this can do to the nerves in most of the body,
and the sight of a couple of their companions
screaming and jumping around is usually all it takes
before at least one of them starts to unclothe.  And
once one has started, it seems to spread relatively
quickly.

It's always comical, though, to see how few men
understand that "strip" means just that!  We want them
naked, totally naked, without underwear, or
wristwatches, or jewellery, or anything, and it
usually takes several attempts to achieve this:
firstly it's the guys who stand there in their
underwear, or, as some of them are evidently
"commando", in their jeans.  They usually have to be
threatened again before they drop them and stand
there.  But then there's usually some kind of
emotional crap when you go through them and insist
they take off their watches, rings, necklaces and all
the other stuff.  "It's a present from my mom....",
"My girlfriend gave it to me...", "You can't want me
to take off my wedding ring, my wife and I....", and
all the other crap.  They don't realise yet that it
makes no difference!  All that is over, and from now
on they'd do well to put all those memories aside.  We
make them just drop all this stuff down amongst their
clothes, and some of them get quite distressed as they
think they ought to be put into sealed bags or
something so that they can be returned to them later -
for fuck's sake, what do they think this is?  Some
sort of old-style prison?

We "march" them off then, leaving all their clothes
and stuff just as heaps on the parade ground.  We had
some sort of psychologist here once who lectured us
about the importance of things like that, saying that
as the naked men moved off, they'd see the "symbols"
of their lives being left behind.  Personally, I think
it's a load of crap - it just makes it easier for us!


Even though we only have new prisoners once every
couple of weeks, we still have a dedicated processing
facility, and that makes everything so much easier.
As they come in off the parade ground they go straight
into a holding cage, and all you have to do is to
remind them that they need to remember their groups as
any of them that doesn't will be punished, and then us
guards can go back to the parade ground and pick over
the spoils.   We're allowed to keep any money that's
in wallets, and that's "yours", personally, from the
guys in your group - I was particularly lucky this
time a I got about sixty pounds  from my eight:  if
they thought about it they'd know that bringing any
money was pretty pointless, but looking at the quality
of some of the leather in the wallets, some of these
guys must have been used to having a lot more than
that.  Still, it was better than nothing.  All the
watches, rings and other jewellery are collected
together and taken  to town and sold to some sort of
dealer, and we split the proceeds later:  we never get
what they're really worth, of course, especially as
sometimes guys arrive here with Rolexes (or, most
probably, fake ones) - but what can you do?

All of us go back inside then and the laborious job of
initial processing of the prisoners begins.  Firstly,
of course, you want them nice and clean.  I mean,
you're going to be handling them, and at least are
going to be in the same room as them for the rest of
the day, so you don't want a lot of dirty, stinking
flesh around you, do you?  So they need to go  through
the showers, and those of them who didn't piss and
crap in the trucks need to do that.  Most men are used
to the idea of showering with others, I suppose -
after all, we stamped out that nonsense of "individual
showers" in schools long ago and they're all communal.
 But somehow they're never really for having to stand
there in a line and piss without doing it into a
proper urinal - we just have a grating in the floor;
and they're especially not used to being told to squat
down and crap, just letting it fall through the
grating, either.  It's one of the last taboos, I
suppose - having to crap in public - so it's a good
start of their training for them.

It's not too much like hard work the first day,
actually - a guard mostly just follows his batch of
men around through the various processing stations,
making sure there's no trouble.  As we keep them stark
naked all day it tends to lessen their resistance
anyway, as they have all see the effects of the prod
and most of us guards keep it in one hand and stand
there tapping it on the other, just to emphasise the
point.    So we watch as they shower, and then as the
barber gives them the "servant crop" - you know, very
short all over, with no sideboards or anything.  Some
of the niggas with those dreadlocks really start to
complain when they get their "servant crop", but Jerry
is pretty tough with them and they soon quieten down.
They all start whining, though, when the barber moves
on to trim their pubes!  Well, I mean, they're mostly
going to have their contracts put up for auction after
eight weeks here, so they may as well get used to the
idea that the purchasers might want to see their
cocks.  And, anyway, what's there to be ashamed about
here - it's a "men only" training camp, as the women
are done somewhere else.

They all hate having their ISN (Indentured Servant
Number) tattooed on them, though - even the blokes
with a lot of tattoos already.  But it's the law - you
get sentenced, you're sent to this training camp, and
you get your SIN tattooed on.  Some of then think it
will spoil their looks for "afterwards", but it's not
all that grim, actually:  the standard position is of
course on the underside of the right wrist, and I
suppose it does hurt a bit as there are all those
veins and things around there;  but, anyway, it
doesn't matter:  they've all been indentured, and so
they've now all got to be marked.

This time in my batch of eight there are only two who
have got to be branded, thank goodness.  That almost
always causes trouble, and I really don't like having
to stun men with the prod just because they're not
ready to take a bit of pain.  As you probably know
only those indentured for life get the "I" branded
into their bum (and even then it's a very stylised "I"
- just a vertical stroke, really, so it can't be all
that bad).   But these two are an odd mixture - one
bloke is in his mid twenties, and he looks really
"hard" - I can see all the muscles in his body as he
moves, and he's tattooed with what looks like a
regimental badge, so I think he's almost certainly
ex-army.  But the other's really only a kid - a thin,
almost weedy, pale, white lad who ought really still
to be at school.  What the fuck can he have done to
merit being indentured for life?  The most you'd think
he'd warrant would be a few months.  But come to that,
what could the army guy have done, either?

Still, that's not my problem - my immediate action is
to march all eight of them to the barracks and put six
of them into their cell.  I lock the door and tell
them they'll be fed later, and march the army guy and
the young kid back over to the processing centre.  The
more I look at the army guy the more convinced I am
that that's what he is - he falls naturally into a
marching rhythm, and carries his body in the way that
soldier does.  Still, I bet that's something he never
learned before - to do it naked.

There can't have been too many "lifers" as when we get
there there's no one else waiting.   I can smell the
residual burnt flesh smell in the air, and I hope they
don't notice - branding's the worse thing we do to
them, and even knowing I've got my prod ready,  I've
had blokes try to escape and stuff before.  Still,
these don't seem too aware of what might happen to
them - in all the "slave" stories on the TV and such
like they tend to gloss over this part of it, and as
you never really see the servants naked, I suppose you
could be forgiven for not knowing that a "lifer" has a
regulation five inch brand on the left ass cheek.
Before they become aware of what's going to happen,
though, I think it's best if  I act quickly so I tell
them to face the wall, and then quickly slip cuffs on
to each of them.  I'm almost home and dry then, but I
leave them there whilst I buckle a temporary collar
(as "lifers" they'll get a permanent one tomorrow)
around their necks, and then go to force their wrists
as high up their backs as I can before chaining them
to the collar.  The army guys resists me as I do this,
trying to keep his wrists down, but he's got no chance
- for one thing, I'm a lot stronger than he is, and
for another, I've got the advantage of surprise:  I
slam his forward against the wall (probably "painfully
forward" would be more accurate), and then as he's
partially winded and not really in a position to
resist, I force his wrists up as high as I can - so
much so that he gives a kind of "Oooofffff" of pain,
before attaching the chain.  Men chained like this are
pretty helpless and you don't generally have too many
problems with them - to avoid choking they tend to
stand bent a bit backwards, and then it's hard for
them to make sudden movements or to resist you as they
know the whole of the front of their bodies -
including their cocks - are very exposed to you.

We've got a soundproofed branding room as it makes for
less distress when there are a number of them to be
done.  I decided to have the young kid done first, so
I push the army guy over  to where the line is usually
waiting, and slipped one of the tethering cuffs around
his ankle.  He gave me a look of pure hate - I guess
it was starting to come home to him that the rules for
"lifers" are all different - as a free man he'd
probably never been tethered anywhere before in his
life, especially when not totally naked and so very,
very vulnerable as his hands were out of action.  It
was easy then to open the double sets of doors with
the airspace in between and push the young kid in, and
when they saw how young and vulnerable he looked, even
the toughies who actually do the branding seemed to
melt a little.  I've seen them be really rough as they
use the element of surprise to push the man down onto
the branding table, but  now they were really
incredibly gentle, leading him to it, then bending him
down gently before tightening the holding straps.

As they always give the men a painkilling injection
afterwards I've never really understood why they
couldn't do it first, before the hot iron touches the
skin, and thus save a lot of unnecessary pain (and
screaming!).    I think it's something to do with
wanting the new servant to really know that his life
has changed now - the absolute agony he must be in
must leave him in no doubt about that!    Still, it's
all over relatively quickly - they keep the iron out
of sight until the bloke's absolutely immobile, then
they get it out and pressed onto his bum before he
really realises it.  The screaming's pretty dreadful,
though, and personally the smell of the barbecuing
flesh makes me nauseous.  It's also not very nice if
they lose control of their bowels and bladders - as
this young kid did - and that all adds to the general
air of humiliation and degradation.   Still, after
they stick the needle in, the pain mostly goes away
and they're pretty quick at swabbing the area down
(and the bloke's bum and thighs) with a hose, and then
you can lead him away through the opposite set of
doors and tether him there whilst you go back and see
to the rest of the men that you're responsible for.

Still, in my case this was only the ex-army bloke, and
as I bent down to undo the tether, he said to me "Is
this where I get the big 'I'?"

"Yes.  So you know about that, do you?"

"My major had a personal servant and he came into the
barracks one night and told us all about it.  Is there
any avoiding it?"

"No.  I'm sorry - I was in the marines, you know: a
soldier, like you.  But it's the law.  All lifers have
to have it."

"Listen, mate, I'm going to scream..."

"...you all do."

"No, I mean I don't want you to think I'm a wimp.  But
he told me it was the worse pain he'd ever
experienced.  Worse, even, than being shot."

"I think he was probably right.  You will scream.  You
all do.  And I won't think you're a wimp.  Now, come
on...."

I'll say that for him - he showed a lot of courage in
just walking through the doors and then almost
disdainfully walking over to the branding table and
lying down himself.

He did scream, too - and hearing a grown man do that
is never pleasant.   But by the time they'd cleaned
him up and given him the painkiller, he was sort of
recovered and I led him out to where the kid was
shackled.

The boss was waiting there, and he said "Ah, Steve,
I'm glad I found you.  There's a change of plan - I've
redistributed the rest of your trainees to the others,
and you're to focus on just these two lifers.  They're
not going through the normal programme - there's a
shortage of lifers, and so we're cutting out all the
toughening and muscle building stuff and just getting
them ready for next week's auction.  One of them's
ex-army and is in pretty fair nick anyway, and the
kid's going to put on muscle naturally as soon as his
new indenture holder gets him to work.  So you're
relieved of all other duties - I just want these two
properly obedient ready for the pre-auction viewing.

I felt my heart sinking, as "getting them properly
obedient" was the bit of the training I disliked the
most:  with a group of eight I could really work on
one of them and make them do it to each other once
they'd seen what was required;  and, of course, I
could pick which one  I was going to use as my
"example".  But with just two I was going to have to
do them myself, separately - and each in his own way
would be a problem.  For one thing, I hate doing it to
other blokes who have been in the services as I think
they deserve a bit more respect - I mean, I gave the
country fifteen years of my life, and what did I get
for it?  And this bloke wasn't even free any more.
And as for the kid - well, I mean, what kind of life
was he going to have now?  He ought to be at school,
then off to University or something - and instead of
that he was going to get me giving him my personal
attention.

"Couldn't you get one of the other blokes to do it,
boss?  You know I'm really good on the training
ground,  putting them through all the exercises and
stuff...."

"Steve, I sometimes think you don't like this work!
Most of the others would be happy to just get these
two to do the obedience training with!  You're not
going soft on us, are you, Steve?"

"No, boss!".  Actually I was.  I wasn't sure I really
did like the "obedience" stuff.  But still, I didn't
have any choice, did I?  I needed this job, and it was
the only one I seemed likely to get.  Without work I'd
soon be in debt, and everyone knows that debt leads to
indentured servanthood now that they'd stopped all
that stuff they had earlier in the century like
unemployment pay and social security benefits.

"Well start with them tomorrow - give the brands time
to scab over.  But be sure, Steve, that you get them
finished before the auction:  we've published all the
notices saying that there are some lifers coming up
this time, and have only just realised that we're out
of stock.  Is that clear?"

"Yes, boss", I said meekly, and led the two men off to
a different cell in the residential block - it's not
good practice to mix men at different stages of their
training as they talk to each other, and that can lead
to unnecessary further complications.

Rob was changing back into his "civvies" as I was, and
we stood there chatting about it generally.  He had a
fairly routine batch, but he sensed I was a bit less
than happy and asked me why.  Once I'd told him, he
just shrugged.  "Hey, Steve, you knew what the job was
when you took it - and most men here would look
forward to those two:  I noticed the army guy when he
first stripped, and I'd say he was going to be a whole
lot of fun to train.  And, well, a sixteen year old -
well, they're always nice for a change....  You're not
going soft, are you?"

"No, Rob.  But... Well..... Oh, I don't know.  I can
do it, of course.  But I just don't enjoy it all that
much."

"Perhaps you should get out and do something
different...."

"I only wish  I could - but you know how it is -
there's just no work without a degree any longer, as
the indentured servants do all the low-grade stuff.  I
know you have to stick it, Rob, wit the wife and kids
and everything.... But I wish  I could just quit...."

Rob looked a little uneasy.  "Steve, I think you've
got the wrong idea about me.  I don't work for the
money as such - my wife's got money and we don't
really have to work at all.  No, I do enjoy it,
actually, and I think it does the kids good to see dad
going off to work every morning..."

"Do they know what you do, though, Rob?  And what
about your wife... Surely...."

"Well the kids are a bit young to understand all of
it, but they're quite proud of their dad being a man
who 'trains servants to be good' as the little one
said the other day.  And my wife - no, of course not!
She knows that what we do here is all part of the
training, it's not serious.... And, anyway, I've got
three kids to prove it!"

I couldn't help thinking that he was a lucky bastard
not to have to work, but I had to.  I closed my locker
with a sharp, and walked out feeling pretty gloomy, to
the car park.  That fucking Lieutenant Andrews was
there again, just getting into his car, and he almost
sneered at me "Had a good job tormenting the servants,
Steve?"

"I was only doing my job, sir", I said as civilly as I
could.  "Someone has to do it, you know".

End Of Part One