Date: Sat, 18 Aug 2012 00:22:47 -0700 (PDT)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "The Judas Slave"  ( A Short Story ) Gay Male / Authoritarian

The Judas Slave
A Short Story

This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of
eighteen years.

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Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): August, 2012
Read all my stories at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories

"The characters and ideas in this story are the writer's and shouldn't be
used without his permission. Please respect the integrity of the story and
don't do any rewrites, make alterations or add pictures."

Note: I have read that, in the past, some abattoirs used a tamed sheep
called a Judas sheep to both calm those unfortunate animals waiting to be
butchered and to lead them docilely through the pens and up the ramps into
the slaughterhouse.

Whilst for the Judas sheep there'd be no sense of betrayal, I couldn't help
but wonder how it would feel for a slave to act out in a similar role as
his less fortunate brethren were processed into their slavery. The
following is my imaginings of such a situation.

Judas:

To the overseers and their attendants at the slave processing center I am
known as "Judas" but I suppose those who know what I do have far worse
names for me.

Like the Judas sheep, that leads its unfortunate companions through the
yards and up the race into the slaughterhouse, it is my job to calm the new
slaves brought here for processing and to lull them into accepting that all
is well.

I'm not sure why I'd been chosen for this job. Perhaps it was my
acquiescence and docility that singled me out from my fellow slaves the day
I was brought here from the courts to be processed into slavery. For
whatever reason, I was chosen by the head overseer to perform this job
which makes the slave-handlers' work so much easier.

That was some six months ago and I can still remember the apprehension and
terror I'd felt as the gates into the processing center clanged noisily
shut behind the slave transporter which had delivered me here.

                                  >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The journey from the courts to the center had been surreal. Like my fellow
slaves, I'd stood dismally and peered in disbelief out through the bars of
the transporter into the hustling activity of the city streets. I held onto
the bars grimly and thought of how normal and familiar it all
looked. Outside of the prison van all was as it should be and nothing had
changed. And yet within the cramped confines of the transporter the world
had altered irrevocably for those of us destined for our new uncertain
futures as slaves.

Slavery is very much a part of modern life and it permeates our society
with its greed and vileness. Slaves exist everywhere. They are at the
centre of our lives as house-servants and they work at the periphery as
labourers on our farms and in our factories. Indeed my own widowed father
had owned many slaves who toiled unremittingly to enrich him.

He'd been a successful manufacturer who owned several medium sized
workshops and a hobby farm which also served as a tax-fiddle that was
ultimately to be his nemesis.  Unfortunately, his greed was his undoing; he
was investigated and found to be falsifying his taxation returns. This
inevitably meant the seizure of all his property and the forfeiture of his
freedom - and mine.

I am an only child and my mother died giving birth to me. My father was too
busy to spend much time with me and I grew up in the care of his slaves who
doted on me and pandered to my every whim.

My father tried to compensate for his lack of attention - to the point of
overcompensation - and spared nothing in indulging me. I wanted for nothing
and I attended the most prestigious private school in the city where I was
tutored to be the best that I could be.

I'd finished school and was spending the long summer vacation before
commencing college when my father's world - and mine - came crashing
down. I had no knowledge of my father's tax evasion and therefore I had no
warning when we were taken into custody and charged with defrauding the
government.

Despite the fact, that I played no part in my father's business ventures,
the prosecution argued that I was a beneficiary of his fraud and should be
judged along with him. The presiding judge concurred with this and I stood
in the dock with my father as we were both found guilty and sentenced to
lifelong servitude.

We were led from the dock and taken in two separate directions. I watched
as my father was dragged struggling from the court still protesting his
innocence. That was the last time I saw my father and I don't know what
became of him. As a felon convicted of defrauding the government, he
automatically became a publicly owned "servant of the state". Obviously he
now serves as a naked slave used on public works but where I have no idea.

Numb with disbelief and almost paralysed with fear, I was lead from the
court and placed in a slave transporter with some twenty to thirty others
who were to share my fate. We were to be delivered immediately to the
city's slave processing center where we would be made ready for the
weekend's slave auctions.

In our society, the law moves swiftly and mercilessly in dealing with those
sentenced to slavery!

The journey from the court precincts to the processing center is a short
one - probably it was no more than a thirty minutes' drive. But that
fateful day, as I peered out through the bars of the van, it seemed
interminable. I looked with envy at those free citizens bustling through
the city's streets and sadly understood that I no longer belonged to their
free society.

I saw gangs of municipally owned slaves working to maintain the streets,
sidewalks and public spaces in good order and I wondered if I would join
such a gang and be made to work, naked, branded and collared under the
cruel lash of an indifferent foreman. I sincerely hope not. I have thought
of those gangs many times over the past six months and I wondered if my
former father works under such conditions. I refer to him as my former
father for the simple reason that slaves aren't allowed any familial ties.

I saw other slaves attending their Masters and Misters and walking the
mandated three paces of respect behind their owners. I heard the soft
patter-patter of running feet and the clattering of steel-rimmed wheels
striking the cobblestoned roadways as slaves in harness drew their owners'
rickshaws behind them.

In that short drive from the courts to the center, I caught images of the
life that now possibly awaited me.

                                 >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

As the tall, iron gates closed behind us, the transporter came to a
halt. Waiting to unload us were overseers armed with whips and taser guns
who wasted no time in hurrying us out of the van.

Confusion reigned as we were shouted at and abused to climb out of our
temporary prison.  Bewildered, we tumbled out of the back onto the ground
where we were ordered to our feet and made to toe a yellow line. Soon we
stood in a single line and waited. I sensed the fear in the young men on
either side of me. Like me they were trembling uncontrollably.

A burly overseer stood before us - at his side was an elderly, forlorn and
naked slave who wore an apprehensive expression - and he sneeringly told us
that we were slaves and would remain so until we died. He reminded us that
because we were court-sentenced we would never qualify for manumission. He
told us to prepare our minds for our new fates whilst he and his assistants
prepared our bodies for slavery.

He told us he and his overseers wouldn't tolerate any resistance or
displays of disobedience.  He warned that instant and unquestioning
compliance with all the orders given by our slave handlers was obligatory
and that any truculence on our parts would be severely punished.

And to emphasise this, he withdrew his taser gun from its hip holster and
applied it to the ass of the slave standing at his side.

None of us were prepared for the miserable slave's wild shriek of
pain-filled agony. It appeared to us that the slave had been reduced to a
trembling, jellylike mass of flesh. He fell to the ground and at first he
thrashed around wildly. His contorted limbs seemed to be disembodied and to
take on lives of their own and to work independently of one another.  We
watched the unhappy slave's suffering with mounting horror and were
sickened by the sight and smell of him uncontrollably voiding his bladder
and bowels as he writhed on the cobblestones.

Gradually, the wild convolutions of body and limbs subsided until the slave
lay twitching on the ground at the overseer's feet. The slave's suffering
was a potent warning to all of us of to what to expect should we offer any
resistance to the slave handlers. We had learned our first lesson.

The chief overseer gave the order to us to:

"Shuck as naked as the day you were born and stand at attention against the
yellow line and to be quick about it".

My fear of the taser gun was such that I was the second to comply with the
order to strip naked; only one other, standing at the end of the line, was
faster than me.  Within a minute, I stood rigidly at naked attention while
most of my companions were still struggling out of their underwear.

I was unaware that my willing obedience had attracted the attention of the
chief overseer.  And I was totally unprepared when acting on his
instructions; another overseer removed me from my position approximately
midway along the line of naked, young men and placed me second in line next
to the one who'd beaten me to undress.

Furtively, I stole a sideways glance at the slave. He was aged somewhere in
his early to mid- twenties and I remember thinking I'd not noticed him in
the transporter that delivered us from the courts to the center. But then I
reminded myself that amid the confusion and fear that I'd felt this wasn't
altogether surprising. As we stood side by side, I wondered of what crime
he'd been convicted. Somehow, he didn't strike me as the violent type. In
fact, he was quite the opposite; he seemed most complacent and docile.

He stood facing the front and I couldn't help but notice his composure. By
comparison, I and the slave, who stood on my opposite side to him,
violently trembled from a combination of raw fear and uncertainty while he
stood serenely calm. This really surprised me. Surely he shared in the
traumatic events enveloping the rest of us. He aroused my curiosity as I
studied him in more detail.

He was a cock-stirringly handsome slave with an impressive physique; his
musculature was clearly defined and yet lacked the "overblown" development
of a body builder. I saw him as a house slave - perhaps even as a pleasure
slave - and I'm sure that this would be his future role in the service of
his new owners.

He turned towards me and noticed that I was scrutinizing him. Embarrassed
at being caught out and worried that he might think I was lasciviously
"perving" on his nakedness, I had the decency to blush profusely and to
avert my gaze. But he seemed unfazed by my actions and smiled at me.

Somehow that smile and his air of complacency soothed my overwrought nerves
and calmed me and I responded positively to him. I was unaware he was a
"Judas slave" and that he was simply performing his duties to calm any new
arrivals and to lead them through the various stages of their induction
into slavery.

Later, I will learn that the "Judas slave" enjoys immunity from the more
extreme form of violence which all new slaves are subjected to during their
processing. For example, he isn't branded and he is left uncollared. These
things are left undone deliberately so as not to arouse the suspicions of
the new arrivals; his unmarked body suggests to them that he is a new
arrival just like them.

What I didn't know was that a "Judas slave" lived a life of comparative
privilege - well as privileged as a slave's life can be - and that he was
rewarded for his hoodwinking of his fellow slaves with a warm stall with
dry, straw bedding and a generous food allowance.

Prior to the arrival of any new batch of prisoners from the courts, he is
given clothes to wear and while the new arrivals are unceremoniously
unloaded, he is surreptitiously imbedded among them and they are none the
wiser. They simply see him as a one of them. He takes his place at the head
of the line and follows the overseers' commands quickly and efficiently
setting an example for the rest to follow.

Of course, the traumatized new arrivals, seeking re-assurance, take their
lead from the Judas slave and blindly follow behind. Perhaps it is the
"herd mentality" in all of us that makes us amenable to this. But our
willingness to be easily led is exploited by the overseers and to this end,
the services of a Judas slave is invaluable.

When we were naked we were ready to be processed into our new slavery. This
is something with which I was completely unfamiliar. Of course, I knew of
the slave processing plant where the newly enslaved are made ready for
auction - well didn't everyone?  Everyone knows of the grim, brick building
whose barred windows look inwards into a central courtyard and not onto the
street. There are no signs advertising its true purpose or of what goes on
behind the high, brick walls topped with razor-sharp wire.

I'd passed the center many times over the years and never given it a second
glance. And needless to say, I'd never given any thought to the wretched
convicts who found themselves condemned to slavery and were sent there for
processing.

I mean, slavery is always something that happens to others - never to you -
and it serves them right too. After all, slavery doesn't happen to the
law-abiding, upright citizenry and I'd never felt any sympathy for those,
who through their stupidity or law-breaking, were sent there.

Or so I'd always thought. That is - until that fateful day!

I considered myself innocent of any wrong doing and yet I was there waiting
to be quickly processed into slavery. My only crime was that I was my
father's son and therefore "guilty by association" with him in his crime of
tax avoidance.  I was paying a high price for my father's culpable greed
and stupidity.

Processing is an unhappy euphemism and it is used to disguise the cruel
chain of events which turn free men into abject slaves. Yet, the actual
process of preparing one for auction is minimal. The authorities, in their
wisdom, consider it only necessary to strip the new arrival naked, to take
steps to ensure that he is free of all vermin and parasites, to collar him
and give him a new numbered identity, to subject him to a cursory medical
examination that both measures and weighs him and to inoculate him against
tetanus and pneumonia. These are the least traumatic of the events that
confront the new arrival.

When that is done, the new slave is questioned, photographed and catalogued
for his sale by auction. However, there is worse to follow.

Finally, there is the mandatory branding with a red hot iron.

So, in effect, the new slave is sold "au naturel". He is allowed to retain
his body hair and if he is uncircumcised, then his foreskin as well. This
way, his new owner buys the slave very much "as is" which allows him to
modify his new purchase to meet his particular needs.

All the reputable slave clearing-houses and salesrooms offer comprehensive
after-sales services on all the slaves they sell. For a discounted fee, the
purchaser can choose to modify his new slave from a whole range of
options. These include additional branding, foreskin removal, infibulation,
ringing and piercing and, of course, permanent hair stripping.

The buyers' options are limited only by his imagination and usually, a
complimentary, thirty days, aftersales service is offered with the purchase
of every new slave. This way, the buyer can take his slave home and
carefully consider what modifications - if any - he wishes to make to his
slave within that thirty days period.

But as I waited alongside the Judas slave, I was oblivious to all this and
I was plagued by the uncertainty of what was to happen to my fellow slaves
and me. Therefore, it was very comforting to see his quiet composure and
his acceptance of the situation that confronted the rest of us. Somehow,
his calm attitude re-assured me and stilled my frayed nerves and I drew
strength from him. And wasn't this the point of the whole exercise?  In
doing this, the Judas slave was just fulfilling his role to the overseers.

Suddenly, the chief overseer gave the order for us to move forward. Without
hesitation, the Judas slave walked towards a strange, circular, cement
structure in one corner of the yard.  Without a second thought, I followed
him and those behind me fell into step. As we approached the structure an
overseer opened a gate into it and we filed in, one behind the other.

Once inside, I recognized the structure for what it was; it was a spray
bath of the type used by farmers to delouse their animals. My father had
installed one on his farm and I'd seen it used on his animals on numerous
occasions and so I was prepared for what would happen.

Once we were all inside, the overseer slammed shut the gate and we were
imprisoned. The circular interior was made entirely of cement - I knew the
absence of corners and sharp edges was deliberately planned to prevent any
panic-stricken animals from bunching up and injuring themselves - and I
supposed this same principle applied to slaves.

We were cramped for space and forced to huddle so close together that our
naked bodies touched. In the past, my own nakedness or that of others had
never unduly worried me. At school, I'd played football and rowed so I was
used to seeing naked, male bodies as we cavorted under the showers after a
fiercely contested game or a strenuous rowing session on the water.

But this was different! Our nakedness that day wasn't of our choosing and
it had been forced upon us. It reduced us to the level of animals and I'm
sure we all felt it most acutely.

Overcome with shame, we all sought to avoid contact with one another. None
of us wanted to touch another's body or to feel a semi-tumescent cock
pressing up against our bare asses and we milled around in a vain attempt
to avoid touching our fellow slaves.

Timidly, I pushed my way through the heaving mass of masculinity to where
the Judas slave was placidly standing near the entrance gate and I
positioned myself next to him. Already, I was finding comfort in the calm
exterior that he exuded and I needed to be close to him. He noticed me yet
again and smiled reassuringly at me.

From past experience, I knew what to expect - although I doubt that too
many of my fellow slaves did - and I heard the whirring sound of electric
pumps starting up. I knew there were fine mist nozzles imbedded in the
concrete floor and walls and overhead there was a criss- cross pattern of
galvanized pipes also fitted with downward pointing sprays.

The sound of the pumps working silenced my companions and no doubt they
worried about what was to happen. At first, a dribble of spray drifted down
onto our heads and then the remaining nozzles spluttered to life.

There was no escaping the spray; from every side - and from both above and
below - our naked bodies were assailed with a myriad of needle-sharp jets
of a foul-smelling mixture. It stung our bodies and there was no escaping
it; we were powerless to avoid it. All we could do was to close our eyes
and mouths and to suffer as best we could. I'm not sure for how long we
were in the spray bath but it did seem like an eternity. My body was soon
saturated and the liquid spray ran in fast flowing rivulets down over the
plains and valleys of my body and pooled around my feet.

Then as suddenly as they'd started, the pumps stopped. Now, the silence was
broken by the fizzing sound of the nozzles shutting down and the soft
splat-splat of liquid dripping from the overhead pipes onto our naked
shoulders and heads.

We were left standing in the bath for several minutes to allow any excess
liquid to drain off our bodies and then the gate was thrown open and we
were ordered out and told to toe the yellow line once more. There, we were
left to drip-dry in the late afternoon sunlight.

As our bodies dried, two things happened. Firstly, beginning with Judas,
each of us was given a capsule and a small amount of water to help us in
swallowing it. Of course, we weren't told the capsule's purpose only that
we must swallow it. And fearing the taser gun, none of us dared refuse. We
didn't know that it was called a "drench" and was used to rid us of any
internal parasites although I guessed as much. My experience with my
father's hobby-farm practices and animal husbandry told me that during our
time in the bath we'd been deloused and that the capsule was to rid us of
any intestinal parasites.

Obviously, this was a necessary procedure in preparing us for sale;
whenever we were sold, the auctioneer could confidently tell the buyers:

"The stock in today's offering is guaranteed to be vermin free."

The second thing to happen as we toed the yellow line was that each of us
was fitted with a collar. Again beginning with Judas, the overseers swiftly
and efficiently placed a stainless steel collar around the neck of each new
slave.

I watched as Judas submissively bowed his head to receive his collar. Of
course, I didn't know this was a charade to lull the rest of us into
complacency and acceptance. At the end of our processing, when the rest of
us were safely locked in the holding-pens, the collar would be removed from
Judas and only brought out for use with the next batch of new arrivals.

Once more, I took my lead from the Judas slave and meekly bowed my head as
the collar was locked around my throat. It has to be said the snug fit and
the weight of the collar did a lot to convince me of my new slave status.

I noticed the collars were numbered; the purpose of which wasn't
immediately clear to me but would become so very shortly. I was to learn
these were our new, digitized identities and they'd be used to identify us
in future.  We'd been stripped of our birth names and they'd been replaced
by numerals. Any names given to us in the future would be the gifts of our
new owners.

My number was 0812/1473. At first, these numbers looked meaningless to me
but I underestimated the efficiency of the state slave system. The first
four numbers tell the observer that I was enslaved in August, 2012 and the
last four numbers that I was the one thousand, four hundred and
seventy-third of the current year to have been sentenced through the
courts.

Then, it was time for the next phase in our processing - our medical
examinations.

These were conducted by an elderly, slightly inebriated medical officer
with a florid complexion, a spider-web veined, bulbous nose and who reeked
of cheap, store-brand liquor. Certainly, he gave the impression he'd rather
be anywhere else other than here handling a new batch of naked slaves. His
disinterest in us was plainly evident, his whole attitude was one of
boredom and his examinations were cursory.

Helping him was a middle-aged, balding slave of non-descript appearance and
a sorrowful expression. When the slave turned his back to me, I saw that
his ass was heavily striped from a very recent, savage caning. Perhaps he
had every reason to look sorrowful!

Naturally, the doctor began with the Judas slave and I watched with
interest knowing that I would be next.

When it was my turn, he disinterestedly used a stethoscope to check my
cardio-vascular system before he visually searched for any imperfections
such as scar tissue, evidence of ill- mended broken bones and hernias. I
obviously passed this first test for then he went on to physically examine
me.

His hands swept down over my body pausing to gauge a bicep or to poke a
finger in my navel. He cupped my balls in his gnarled hand and ordered me
to "cough"- several times. He manipulated my cock, stretching it out from
my body and pushing my foreskin back along the shaft to expose my glans. He
squeezed my piss-slit and I rewarded him with an almost instantaneous
erection. He turned me and examined my back before he ordered me bend at
the waist and pull my ass-cheeks apart exposing my hole to his scrutiny. I
gasped as his bony finger thrust through my puckering sphincter and teased
my prostate. Dismissively, he slapped my buttocks and told me to:

"Stand up straight and face the front."

He examined my eyes, ears and nose before he instructed me to open my
mouth. He used his finger to check out the soundness of my tongue and
teeth. I wondered - was this the same finger that had just been thrust up
my ass?

He ordered me to open my mouth "wider" and used a wooden spatula to hold my
tongue in place as I said "AAHHH!!" Not once but several times.

Finally, he callously administered my injections and then I was weighed and
measured by his slave assistant and sent to stand alongside of Judas.

Despite the fact that the medical officer's examination of me was cursory,
I still felt acute embarrassment and shame. That was the first of many
examinations that I have been subjected to on a daily basis over the past
six months and I always feel the same. I have never adjusted to them.

I passed my medical and I simply followed Judas to the penultimate phase of
my processing.  This was a verbal interview with a slave-clerk who asked
for my full name, date of birth, last place of residence, education and
what skills I possessed. My answers were simple.

Essentially, I am a well-educated, eighteen year old, new slave without any
skills. I was keenly aware that this limited my options somewhat. Without
any worthwhile skills, my appeal to the buyers rested solely on my youthful
body and my good looks. I had no doubts that these would be put to good use
by my new owner.

The slave-clerk photographed me and placed this, together with my answers,
into a computer database under my new slave identity, 0812/1473. And
between now and my scheduled sale-date, this information will be included
in a buyer's catalogue and listed on the internet.

I followed Judas back to the yellow line and waited there as the rest of my
companions in misery were given their medical examinations and
interviews. Once the last slave returned we were ready for the final
procedure in our processing. Fortuitously, none of us had any inkling of
the trauma that awaited us.

Up to that moment, all that had happened to us had been humiliating but
comparatively benign and I supposed we'd been lulled into accepting that
things could be worse. And most of the credit for our state of mind must go
to the Judas slave. His calm demeanour had soothed us and we were glad to
take our lead from him. So much so, that when the head overseer gave him an
instruction to walk over to a narrow wooden door set in a solid brick wall,
none of us thought twice about following him.

As Judas approached, an overseer opened the door for him to enter and we
followed blindly behind him. Too late, I saw that we were in a long, narrow
enclosure just wide enough to accommodate us. It reminded me of the animal
crush-race that my father's farm workers had used for the branding and
dehorning of cattle and the irony of this wasn't lost on me.  Indeed, I
recall thinking to myself that there was little difference between those
cattle and me. Like them, I and my companions were seen merely as another
form of livestock and treated as such by our handlers.

Instinctively, I knew I should be afraid and yet, Judas serenely walked the
full length of the race and stood expectantly before an exit door identical
to the one we'd entered through. I just followed! But I did wonder what was
on the other side of that door?

We were left in a limbo of uncertainty for several minutes during which
time we were prodded forward and made to bunch up so tightly that our
bodies were tightly compacted. I found myself pushed hard against Judas so
that my chest and belly were touching his back and the rounded curves of
his ass fitted neatly into my groin area. Similarly my own ass adjusted to
the body contours of the slave immediately behind me.  And despite my
apprehension, I felt the swelling of my incipient erection as my cock
sought to settle itself between the cheeks of Judas's ass.

There was method in this. We could neither move backwards nor turn. There
was only one way out of the race and that was to move forward to whatever
waited for us on the other side of the exit door.

Such close proximity - and our nervousness - soon had all of us sweat
slicked. Our nakedness in such an erotically charged situation quickly had
all of us mightily aroused and I could feel the almost red-hot heat of a
hard, throbbing cock pulsing suggestively against my ass.

I'd long accepted my homosexuality and I'd frequently used the more comely,
younger, male slaves in my father's household for sex. I was deliciously
sandwiched between Judas's nakedness and that of the new slave immediately
behind me and I lasciviously savoured the moment.

But my pleasure was short-lived; the door in front of us was opened and an
overseer used the end of his whip-handle to prod Judas and me through into
a small room. Waiting for us were two burly overseers and their two slave
assistants.

The room was dominated by a stout, wooden bench which stood at its
center. But the thing that I noticed the most was the overpowering, stale
smell of charred meat you'd associate with a barbecue. I guess it took
several moments for these two things to register in my mind. But
inevitably, the penny did drop and I recognized that I was in the branding
chamber.

As my eyes widened in horror, I looked around for a brazier of red-hot
coals that one usually associates with the branding of slaves.  But there
wasn't a brazier; instead I saw an electric branding-iron glowing with
orange-red intensity. And in the momentary lapse of my shocked silence, I
heard the metallic clicking of the iron's thermostat as it cycled through
its heat temperature settings.

The effect of this on me was immediate!

My cock drooped and hung limp as my balls automatically contracted back
into the safety of my fast-shrivelling scrotum. I felt sick in the stomach
and my bladder suddenly ached for release. My bowels turned to water and my
knees buckled. And I began to sweat more profusely.

My branding was imminent and I was terrified. I fell to the floor and
curled my body into the foetal position and I heard my pleading to the
overseers not to brand me.

Meanwhile, Judas had taken up a position against a wall from where he would
watch as I was branded.

But my fears were unfounded. I wasn't to be branded that day. The overseers
had other plans for me.

Instead of coming for me, the two slave assistants took hold of Judas. At
first, he was uncomprehending but inevitably he understood what was
happening. His time as the "Judas slave" was at an end and he was to be
replaced by me.

He began to plead and soon his pleading turned to begging. As he was
dragged kicking and screaming to the branding-table, his wild entreaties
went unheeded. When the two slaves lifted him bodily and belly-flopped him
on the table's hard wooden surface he began to sob.

No one listened.

Naturally, I was unaware of what was happening - I still thought of Judas
as one of the group which had accompanied me from the courts to the
processing center - and I watched in fascinated horror as he was prepared
for his branding. At that stage, I fully expected to follow him onto the
table within a few short minutes. But my relief was palpable. I was to be
spared the branding-iron for a little while longer. And how I savoured my
respite; as brief as it might be.

The overseers and their slaves worked methodically and swiftly. The slaves
stretched Judas's body out to its full length and fastened his wrists and
ankles into leather restraints at each end of the table.

Next, heavy, leather straps, securely anchored to the table top, were
buckled around Judas's upper back, his waist and his thighs just below his
ass. As the leather straps were tightened around Judas's torso, he was
completely immobilized and the only movements these bindings permitted were
the panicky rise and fall of his chest from his ragged breathing and the
nerve-quivering of his flanks.

Judas continued to loudly beg and he was rewarded with a series of hard
slaps to his heaving ass. As the sound of a bare hand meeting naked flesh
echoed around the room, an overseer ordered him to.

"Quieten down! You're time here is done and you're being sent for sale so
let's get you branded quickly and into a pen."

This did quieten Judas; his loud protests subsided into body convulsing
sobs as his terror- filled eyes followed the overseers' movements.

Judas turned his head to the side and watched as one overseer retrieved the
branding iron.  Once more, panic took hold of him and he began to plead
piteously to be spared. The second overseer, in an effort to calm him,
stroked his back and gently patted his ass and tried to re-assure him:

"Settle down! It'll all be over in a minute. Now, take a deep breath and
hold it!"

From my position on the floor I watched in horror as the Judas slave was
branded.

As he felt the heat of the approaching iron, his entreaties grew more
desperate.

"No! No! Please don't brand me? I don't want to be branded. Let me go,
please?"

I heard the sizzling sound as the branding iron seared itself in the
slave's left flank and my sense of smell was overwhelmed by the sickening
stench of scorched flesh. As Judas's pain- filled scream reverberated
around the closed confines of the branding-room, my raw, nerve- edged
emotions were overwhelmed by my own terror. I was convinced that my
branding was imminent and defensively I curled myself into a tight ball
against the wall.

As the overseers released Judas from the branding table, their slave
assistants approached me. As Judas clambered down, I saw the angry, raw
letter "S" - for slave - brand which he'd now wear on his left buttock in
perpetuity as the visible mark of a common slave.

The two slave assistants hauled me to my feet and as I struggled in their
firm grasp, I lost control of my bladder and I pissed myself. Unreasoning
fear was the raw emotion uppermost in my thoughts and I felt absolutely no
shame or humiliation because of my untimely mishap.

From somewhere deep within me, I found hidden reserves of strength to
resist my captors. I tried to dig my heels into the floor but they couldn't
find any purchase on the slippery, tiled surface. Still, I was determined
to fight them as they dragged me to the branding-table.

But, again I was wrong!

Instead of taking me to the table, they dragged me out of the branding room
through a door and into an area of open-fronted, barred holding pens each
capable of holding ten inmates.  The overseers placed Judas in the first
pen and as the door slammed shut behind him, he collapsed onto the
straw-strewn floor and wept softly.

I can only imagine the pain he felt as a result of his branding. However,
my gratitude at being spared the branding iron was greater than any
sympathy I felt for him. My self- preservation was uppermost in my mind.

I was unaware of his history and I still thought of him as one of my group
of new slaves brought here for processing. I didn't know that for the past
six months he'd been used to lull all new arrivals into a false sense of
security that made them more tractable for the slave handlers to
manage. That had been his task and he'd performed it most admirably.

For the past six months, he'd lived in a limbo of uncertain hope. His time
as the "Judas slave" had left him complacent and with the hope that the
status quo would continue indefinitely.

But there are no absolutes in a slave's life. Things can change without
warning.

That morning, Judas had awakened to a new day and was made ready for the
arrival of a new batch of candidates for enslavement. There'd been no plans
on the part of the head overseer to replace Judas. That is until my
arrival. The head overseer had recognized my timidity and docility and
these had marked me as an ideal Judas slave. My ready willingness to obey
an order had convinced him that the time was right to replace the current
Judas with a new one.

                                  >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

That was six months ago and I sometimes wonder whatever became of my
predecessor.  Without doubt, he was sold along with those who'd travelled
with me from the courts to the processing center. But who bought him and
for what purpose? These are questions that will never be answered.

My time as the Judas slave has been easy. I am well-treated by the
overseers and indeed my relationship with them is similar to that of a
favourite pet. And in many ways this is what I am. I work closely with them
to allay the suspicions and fears of any new arrivals and they value my
contributions to their work.

I have my own stall in which I sleep and the only overnight restraint used
on me is a long ankle chain. My straw bedding is changed regularly and I am
given two more than adequate meals of slave gruel a day so I never suffer
hunger pangs. Often at lunch time, as I sit at their feet, the overseers
will toss me the crusts from their sandwiches and the occasional piece of
fresh fruit. These titbits are always welcome and provide a tasty
alternative to the blandness of my slave diet.

In return, I willingly co-operate with the handlers and whenever a new
transporter arrives from the courts, I am given clothes to wear and I am
secretly imbedded among the new arrivals. Then, I draw on my experiences of
my own first day as I lead the unsuspecting victims through the processing
routines.

Do I feel guilt or a sense of betrayal at doing this? Not really!

At first I did but this soon passed. Now I see it as more of a kindness to
the new arrivals. I am only too familiar with the heartbreak that
accompanies a court verdict for enslavement.  If, through my efforts as the
Judas slave, I can lessen the trauma of that and to make it easier for the
new slave in his transition from lost freedom to bitter servitude, then I
am fulfilling a useful purpose. And my overseers would also agree that I
lighten their workload.

But this is tempered with the knowledge that my position here is only
temporary and that one day, like my predecessor, I will be replaced. I
won't be given any warning and the first inkling that my life is about to
change yet again will be when I am placed on the branding- table.

Already, I have served as the Judas slave for six months and I know that
any day now I could be replaced. And then, like my predecessor I will be
sent to the auction-block. Of course, I worry about this. What slave faced
with the prospect of being sold doesn't concern himself with his future?
And naturally, I sometimes worry about who'll buy me and to what uses I'll
be put.

But I try not to dwell too much on my future as it is beyond my control. As
the Judas slave, I live only for today. Tomorrow is the uncertain future
and whatever happens to me is in the hands of an unknown Fate!


End

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