Date: Sat, 26 Jan 2002 03:46:20 -0800 (PST)
From: Brown Pete <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Training The Marine, Part 1

TRAINING THE MARINE - Part 1

By Pete Brown.  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com


I was quite excited when I first saw the marine.  He
was standing in his dishevelled uniform in one of the
larger size travelling cages that is used to transport
prisoners and slaves around the country.  He had the
usual marine's very short hair, but his face was
swarthy with  several days growth of his jet black
hair.  I couldn't see any of the detail of his body as
he was fully clothed, but his 5'11" height seemed to
be perfectly complemented by his general body weight
and shape - I guessed that he would be very fit, tough
and muscular - although not with those ghastly
overdeveloped body builders' muscles you see on men
who have been worked too hard in the gym.

Enquiring of the slave dealer, I discovered that he
had been captured only a few days before on a supposed
"secret" mission into our country.  His trial had of
course been immediate and swift, and he had been
sentenced to a lifetime of slavery as is normal for
those who are in serious breach of our laws.  The
dealer was the "official" government dealer, who took
all those who were sentenced by the courts at a fixed
price per head, and then sold them on at whatever
price he could get.  As is usual with these dealers,
he had no proper respect for my position and whined on
about how hard it was to make a profit - he had to
tender in open competition once per year for the
contract to take the slaves, and this year had been
very bad:  very few of the young males most favoured
in the markets had been condemned, as drinking alcohol
- the most common cause of enslavement - had rather
gone out of fashion.

He wasn't expecting to cover the standard price for
this marine, as they has achieved an unenviable
reputation in the market for being difficult, if not
impossible, to train properly.  The punishments and
regime necessary to properly break their spirit so
that they could be remoulded as good, subservient
slaves often proved so harsh that the slave's body, or
his mind, or both, were permanently damaged.

I always like a challenge, and I was somewhat bored at
that time as my business empire was running "on
autopilot".  One of the secrets of success as a
manager is to identify, train and promote subordinates
so that they can be entrusted with all those mundane
tasks you delegate to them - and I mean properly
delegate, so that the whole thing can be handed over
to them, and the manager can be sure that the work
will be carried out completely satisfactorily.  So I
had lots of time on my hands, and most days only made
token appearances at my headquarters to chair
important board meetings, and to meet our top ten
global clients when they were visiting.

My father was renown in the country as a  top
"amateur" trainer of slaves, and this is the only area
in which my reputation had not yet exceeded his.  In
all the stress and effort of starting and building our
business for its first thirty years, he had still
found time to manage and operate our country estate
and its flock of slaves.  He had handed on to me an
organisation that I then rapidly grew to the global
giant it is today, but even with all my managerial
skills I rarely found time for a focus on a "hobby",
as my father had.  It would amuse me, I thought, to
take this slave and show that where others had failed,
I could succeed.  I would turn this "wild" marine into
a perfectly trained slave, and knowing that many men
of his kind are initially repulsed by close personal
contact, would furthermore fit him for use as a slave
in my sauna, whirlpool and shower suite.

Knowing something of the contract price for government
slaves, I offered the dealer a fair price for the
marine - 10% above his buying-in price, that would
adequately compensate the dealer for his freight and
handling costs and allow him a modest profit.  He was
initially reluctant to accept my offer, as these
dealers are slimy creatures and are always looking to
take advantage of honest businessmen.  But I pointed
out that he himself had told me that the marine would
have a bad reputation and be unlikely to fetch this
price at open auction:  he could take a modest profit
now, or risk getting almost nothing later.

Of course the slave was a snip - I had him invoiced to
my company and he would therefore be an "allowable
business expense".  His true cost to me was reduced by
the rapacious profits tax I would otherwise pay.  I
arranged for him to be delivered to my office HQ later
that day, specifying that he should not be stripped
naked as a new purchase would normally be - I regarded
the Marine voluntarily removing his clothes as one of
the first steps in his acceptance of his new status.
However I did not want him to know where he was and
some degree of disorientation was desirable, and
therefore he was to be hooded in transit.  I was also
quite specific that no violence was to be used towards
him and he was not to be whipped or beaten:  my only
requirement was that he be lightly cuffed (and the
cuffs should not dig into his flesh as they can if
they are tightened over zealously).  However instead
of the usual cuffing with the arms just behind the
back, I wanted his arms high up in the middle of his
back when the cuffs were applied - not so high as to
be painful, but high enough so that he felt more
helpless;  the arms would be held here by a light
chain to a collar - again, not too tight, just so that
he knew that if he  tried to lower his arms he would
get an unpleasant strangling sensation.

I went off to my office, pleased with my activities
already that morning.  As I expected, there was little
real work for me to do - I was given a number of
presentations on key strategic issues facing us, but
as usual my subordinates had properly prepared and I
really only had to approve their recommendations.  I
find that's what executive managers do all the time,
and I only occasionally send back a proposal for
"further review" as I know this keeps my staff on
their toes.  I therefore had plenty of time to go and
inspect the training suite that my father had had
installed when the building was constructed, but which
had not really been used as he had died shortly after
the works were complete and I took over.

Taking my private elevator from my office ( my room,
and the offices of my immediate assistants and
subordinates occupied the entire top floor), I went
down to the fourth level of basement, underneath all
those used to house the air conditioning, store rooms,
garages, etc.  It was deathly quiet down here, and
there was that "dead" sound you only get when all
external noise is eliminated.  Here, deep below the
earth, there was no traffic noise to intrude on the
absolute calm, and all the walls were massively solid
concrete to support the weight of the tower above, so
nothing could penetrate from one closed-off space to
another. Even the air conditioning had been specially
silenced - the air was fresh, but felt still:  the
number of air changes down here had been very reduced
compared to the building as a whole, so there was no
need for massive fans and that annoying background
"rumble" that was all-pervasive in my own office suite
and in every modern office block I have even been in
to.

My father was considered by the cognoscenti to be a
true master craftsman in the art of training and
educating slaves, and he had had this lowest sub-level
of the building extensively fitted out for what was,
in effect, his hobby.  He had planned to keep a number
of slaves in need of training down here, so that he
could visit them in breaks between meetings and the
interminable lunches and dinners with visiting foreign
dignitaries.  He had also intended to use some of the
rooms for "correctional activities", shall we say, for
unruly and persistently disobedient slaves from our
country estate:  father planned to have such
individuals shipped with him in the trunk of his car
when he returned from weekends there, so he could
personally supervise their punishments.  He considered
that  a week spent being punished, under his personal
supervision would be more than adequate for even the
vilest transgression of his rules  that any slave
could make.

But, as I said, he never really got around to being
able to enjoy this extravagant luxury of an entire
floor built for his leisure pursuit (the building's
architects in London could never understand why he had
wanted this additional level constructed, and had at
one stage, noting that it was totally "void", even
deleted it from the plans!  When father noticed this,
the building was already up to fifth floor level, and
had to be torn down.  I think father got as much
pleasure from pursuing the internationally famous
architects through the courts as he did from even the
most fierce whippings he ever administered to any
slave).  The various rooms were however complete and
fitted out, and the massively heavy soundproof doors
to each of them moved easily as the hydraulics slid
them open and closed at my touch on the opening and
closing buttons:  even then, father was beginning to
feel a little frail, and he wanted to be able to use
this area without the normal requirement for door
opening slaves and all the others you routinely need
to make life bearable.

Thinking about how I planned to train my marine, I
rejected the obvious as I  knew it was unlikely that
pure pain, in itself, would achieve my objective.  It
was likely that the use of the rooms fitted as
properly kitted-out  torture chambers would merely
firm his resolve not to bend to my will, and I would
simply end up by having to do severe damage to his
bones or his flesh:  and then what would I have?  Just
another piece of flesh that would have to be consigned
to the mines, or sold back to the slave dealers to be
sent to Brazil for the organ transplant banks.  I knew
that what I wanted to achieve was a formerly proud
marine who had become a totally subservient slave, but
this had to be done in such a way that it was the
slave who submitted voluntarily to my superior will.
Simple pain, administered for however long a period,
would not do this (although of course it might play a
part in the overall scheme of things - I would have to
see how we got on).

The room I had in mind was just as I remembered it
from an inspection visit I had made some years before.
 It had been kept clean, and in "working order" by
occasional maintenance visits, so was ready for use.
As the massive door slid silently open on its runners,
I saw the area divided into two halves by the floor to
ceiling stainless steel bars.  "My" half was
comfortably but simply furnished with a couch on which
I could recline or sit, a TV, a telephone, and a PC so
that I could keep in touch with my business or receive
very urgent e-mail if my visit was prolonged and my
subordinates truly needed me. I opened the steel
cabinet against one wall that held the instruments and
devices I might need as my plan for the slave unfolded
- I didn't want to have to leave the room if we were
at a key point in the training as this might "break
the spell" and set us back several days in his
progress.  A door opened into a bathroom suite with a
good sunken bath, large shower, basin equipped with
toiletries, razors, toothbrushes, etc., so that I
could freshen up if I needed to, and a lavatory.
Unlike most westerners, I am of course not shy about
bathing and excreting in front of slaves as I have
been doing this all my life, so you might consider the
door to be an irrelevancy.  It does however show how
my father had thought things through: it was important
to have some privacy down here as you might want to
use your own nakedness with the slave as a proper
"step" in his later training.

The slave's half of the room was of course completely
different.  The deep grey carpet on my side of the
room turned to smoothly painted concrete on "his"
half.  About one quarter of the floor was gently
shaped and sloped down towards a four-inch diameter
hole, which served as the usual crap hole for the
slave, and also as a drain (as the concrete ceiling
above it held a complex of shower heads).

There were no switches or controls in the slave's
half, and no furniture of any kind.  Once in there,
the slave had only the bare concrete floor to sit or
lie on.  Whilst he could piss or crap whenever he
wanted, he could only clean himself if the occupant of
the other half allowed him to do so by turning on the
shower.  There was however a standard slave drinking
spigot on one wall, tongue operated as usual, so the
slave could normally get water if he wanted it
(although there was provision for turning off this
from the controls on the other side, in case the
trainer decided the slave should go thirsty).

All looked in working order, and I familiarised myself
with the controls on the little table adjacent to my
couch that turned on and off the lights, worked the
shower (noting that the temperature control could be
set almost down to zero, with specially chilled water
from the building's air conditioning plant), and
varied the temperature.  Here again, father had
thought of everything:  just outside the bars, an "air
curtain" effectively separated the space into two
zones:  I could remain comfortable on my side, whilst
the air conditioning outlets on the other side
delivered scorching hot or icy cold air.  The
remaining set of controls caused me to shake my head
in puzzlement for a few moments, until I realised they
were for the supply of water that ran through pipes
just under the floor surface:  as for the shower, it
could be adjusted to be scalding hot or icy cold, so
rapidly changing the temperature of the concrete floor
on which the slave had to stand, sit or lie.

I hadn't planned to use any physical methods on the
marine, as I have said, but on reflection decided that
keeping him warmer than usual, or colder than usual,
might on occasions be helpful in reinforcing some
lesson I was going o give him.  I also realised that
I needed to spend some time familiarising myself with
the complex remote controller for the TV:  pressing
the buttons I saw that it would swivel to face only
me, or only the slave, or could be positioned so that
we could both see it.  As well as the usual channels
piped to all the offices in the building, it could of
course also play videos or DVDs, but a novel
arrangement also allowed via a link to the PC any
images from anywhere on my PC network to be piped in.
I realised that I could sit in my office high in the
tower and address the slave via the TV.  A camera on
top of it would relay back to me a view of the
facility and could be panned and zoomed to show me
whatever I wanted.

I then saw that all the room's controls could in fact
be operated remotely via a PC link, if a master
control set them to "remote" rather than "local".  I
felt certain that this would be a great help on
occasions, if my stupid subordinates or assistants
failed to cope with a crisis, or messed up my diary,
so that I could not be here in person at some vital
stage of the training.

Pleased that everything seemed to be in order, I went
back up in my elevator to my offices, glad that we had
paid the additional money when the building was
constructed to have a real "express" installed:  the
45 story transit took less than a minute.  The rest of
the morning, and half the afternoon, was frankly a
waste of my time as it spent in strategic reviews, and
a "business" lunch with a  British cabinet minister
stopping in our country on his way back to London:  as
ever, he was pleading their case for more trade with
my organisation.  I was seething with impatience now I
had embarked on this new project, and had to have one
of my secretaries call to make sure that they had not
failed to inform me, as I had instructed, when the
slave dealer had delivered the marine.

Once warned of my interests, my staff did of course
step in without any further intervention or need for
comment  on my part - they know from long experience
that as the absolute owner of the business, my tiniest
wish is to be implemented at once.  Having been
alerted by a secretary that I had casually asked if
the slave had yet been delivered, my PA at once swung
into action.  They tracked down the particular slave
dealer by asking my chauffeur about my movements that
morning, and then, I suppose, "put the frighteners" on
him!

We're not enormous users of slaves ourselves, as most
of our operations take place in the international
cities where we trade:  LA, New York, Boston, London,
Paris, Frankfurt, Rome, HK, KL, Sydney, Tokyo, BA, and
Rio.  Even most of my office staff here at base are
not slaves, as I have found that employing
expatriates, at generous salaries and with huge
tax-free allowances, makes for more willing workers.
Like everyone of my status and wealth, I do of course
have about a thousand or so slaves to keep my country
estate in good order.   However the actual business
this generates for the dealers is small as I breed
most of the stock I need on the spot - we've been
going on the "in house" breeding programme long enough
so that there's always a steady stream of new slaves
to replace those who die, or who are sold on as being
past the end of their useful working life.  Whilst the
dealer would not be concerned about the volume of my
business as such, he would know that I am so well
connected, and the tentacles of my organisation extend
so far and so deep throughout the global economy, that
it would be unwise to upset me:  almost certainly I
could have him out of business within minutes, if I
chose.

So within seconds of my PA's call, I imagine that
there would be panic at the dealers and frantic
efforts would be made to cuff and hood the slave as I
had specified, load him into a transit cage, and get
it on a truck around to us.

I had just finished a short interview with one of the
senior finance directors who I was firing for general
lack of enthusiasm for my business  when my PA
respectfully interrupted me and told me that here was
"a package on the loading bay" for me.  I always
insist on firing direct subordinates, and direct
reports to them, personally:  I always hire executives
at this level, or approve their promotion, and so I
consider it my responsibility if they prove to be less
than satisfactory and should be terminated.  I don't
like these "firing" interview, as there's usually
nothing to say - the man generally knows why he's
being let go, and can't really argue with me anyway
as, after all, I am the boss.  And I don't personally
haggle about the terms for the settlement of
outstanding salaries and so on - when your business
makes as much money as mine does, it really is a drop
in the ocean.  So you sit for three or four minutes
making polite conversation, expressing mutual thanks,
and shaking hands:  what a waste of time!  When I
contrast this with how easy it is to get rid of a
non-performing slave, I do sometimes wonder whether my
"ex-pat" policy is the right one!

It's important that executive   managers should not
get too directly involved in the actual mechanics of
anything, so would have loved to have gone down and
seen the slave in his cage on the loading dock and
supervise his unpacking , I restrained myself.
Feigning indifference, I told my PA to have the cage
moved down into suite 6 in the basement (the one I
have told you about) and that I would then attend to
it later, and told him to get my next meeting started.

They were lucky at that meeting:  their idiotic plan
for the global reshaping of my business was of course
nonsense, however many eminent management consultants
had devised it.  A whole set of the senior partners
from the major Boston firm that had been hired at vast
expense had flown in to present their findings, and
had I not been seething with impatience to get down to
see my new acquisition, I would have spent at least an
hour savaging them.  As it was, I contented myself
with swiftly outlining how the reorganisation and
restructuring was in fact to be done, and telling them
to go away and produce a detailed implementation plan
for my scheme.  They professed to be unable to do this
within the 48 hours I gave them before they should
present to me again, but changed their minds when I
then told them their contract was therefore
terminated:  their most senior partner apologised that
"his colleagues had not properly understood my
requirements, and my natural desire to have my
business re-engineered in a way that only I, as the
owner, could truly understand".  I could work with
this man, I thought, as he had a good appreciation of
how a global businessman and slave owner thinks and
operates, and relented on the contract termination.
The man was so grateful - I suppose a substantial part
of his bonus that year was dependent on the success of
their project with us - and invited me out to dinner
with him that evening.

Of course I don't usually dine with tradesmen, however
important they think they are.  But I was now in a
better mood, and politely explained that it was not my
practice ever to eat out, as especially not in our own
country.  If I wanted to sample food other than the
excellent fare produced by my own chefs, I had it sent
in - or, rather, I had the chef from the restaurant
concerned brought to my kitchens.  I have found that
even the most eminent chef from anywhere in the world
can be persuaded to fly here when his fee can be
whatever he chooses (and especially if one of my
correspondent banks who have the mortgage on his
restaurant put the squeeze on him).

I had been intrigued by this senior partner, however,
and the rapidity with which he had seen my
displeasure, told his team to shut up, and promised me
that they would of course do as I required.  I knew
that he would be formidably intelligent and assertive
to have got to the top of his firm at only 45, and was
interested to see if I could persuade him to come and
work for me directly. So instead I invited him for
dinner at my town house.  As they left the room, I
told my PA to lay on a special dinner that night for
the two of us:  I knew that the offer of mere money
could not tempt the man away from his firm, as even
now with the sort of lifestyle he would be leading,
working eighty hour weeks, he would not have time to
spend his salary, bonuses, and partnership profit
share.  But clearly he liked power, and this I thought
would be the key to his character:  I would show him
what power really meant, when you have absolute
control of other men, and that therefore there should
be an after dinner "entertainment":  my team of eight
perfectly matched gymnasts would perform for us, and
then when they had completed their routines and were
covered in sweat from an Olympic-standard performance,
I would ask him to tell me what they should then do.
If I guessed correctly, he would understand from their
naked bodies, the rumours he had heard about my
tastes, and what he knew of slavery in our country,
that he should order them to show us some interesting
sexual acts.

My briefing papers on his firm had given me a little
of his biography, and I knew that he was married with
three children - not that he would see much of them
and his wife, given his work schedule.  I supposed he
was "straight", but I know that all men are interested
in seeing other men's bodies (look at the sneak peeks
that men take in communal changing rooms all the
time), especially when the bodies are such perfect
specimens as my gymnasts are.  Everyone likes to see
the perfection of an Olympic athletics performance,
and as my team of course are completely shaved and
perform naked and oiled, you get to appreciate their
muscles even more.  If he specified some clever
routine involving multiple or simultaneous fucking,
and even better, if he did this without hesitating and
with no preliminary "warm ups" moving  slowly from
athleticism to sex as he got bolder, I knew I would
have him.  I would promise him power like that over a
household of slaves of his own, and such power would
be irresistible to one who had spent his entire
working life in pursuit of it.

However the problems of finding suitable senior
executives is not really germane to my story.  That
afternoon I simply cancelled my appointments for the
rest of the afternoon and took my express elevator to
the basement.

Four guards and their commander were standing just
outside the elevator doors, just lounging around.
They sprang to attention when they saw me, and their
commander politely indicated the transit cage to me
and asked me for further instructions.

Because I had specified that the hands were to be
chained high on the back, and the slave was clothed,
there had been more of a problem than usual in fitting
him into a "local" transit cage.  The lower part of
his back and ass were hard up against the bars of one
side and his feet against the other.  There was hardly
room for his curved-up back to get between his bent-up
knees, and the barred cage lid was, I thought,
compressing his hands slightly as it had had to be
pushed down hard to make him bend his head right down.
 I was of course denied the first sight of his cock
and balls - usually, when slaves are delivered caged
like this, these are clearly visible as they hang down
between the thighs towards the floor of the cage.

I told the commander to have his men get the slave
out, then lead him off to the suite I had prepared.
They were not to talk to the slave or give him
commands as they did this, only move him by physical
force if necessary.  One of the guards pulled the bolt
back and flipped open the lid, and the slave was able
to sit upright.  Being hooded and cuffed, he sat there
shaking his upper body - I expect he was trying to
relieve cramped muscles that had been bent rather
unnaturally.  Two guards then put their arms under his
armpits, and raised him to his feet - he was a bit
unsteady at first, but even through his dishevelled
uniform trousers I could see him flexing his muscles
in an attempt to get them working fully again.

Without giving him time to start to react, the two
guards marched him off down the corridor - the slave
was trying to say something, but this was muffled by
the hood (and anyway it could be of no importance or
relevance).

I do not like the lower orders to know too much about
my affairs, and so only the two guards guiding the
slave were allowed into suite 6, and the commander and
the other two guards had to wait outside after I had
pressed the code to open the massive door.  I did not
allow these two to see much of what the suite was like
either, as I told them to leave as soon as  they had
pushed the slave through the gate in the bars
separating the two halves of the room, and closed it
behind him.  I dismissed the five guards, saw them
move away towards the elevators, and closed the door
to the suite so that we were totally isolated from the
world.

With the lack of outside sound, no noise from the air
conditioning system, and my own stealthy tread across
the thick carpet, the slave might have imagined he was
totally alone and totally isolated.  I watched with
interest as he walked around, pressing his body
against the walls and the bars, trying to understand
the size and geography of the room - something that
did not take long as, of course, it was featureless
and quite small!  He was calling and shouting as he
did this, but I made no reply:  I wanted him to think
he was totally alone for a few minutes.

It was amusing to see him jump when I called out "Come
over here!"

This was the first time I had used English in his
hearing, as when I commanded the guards it was in our
native Arabic.  However my English is absolutely
flawlessly perfect, and I speak it with that
upper-class British accent that almost automatically
commands respect from the lower orders (my father sent
me to an English prep school at seven, then to Eton,
and Cambridge).  Until I had taught him simple
commands in Arabic, I was perfectly happy to use
English, as anyway this is the language we work in in
my organisation as it is the world-wide lingua franca.
 Actually, it makes for a nice differentiation:  all
my work colleagues, and all my close personal friends,
speak in English irrespective of their nationality, as
do I.  I reserve my Arabic for discussions with the
lower orders, and for commanding my slaves.  Sometimes
I wonder what my "native" language now is - I can
switch effortlessly between English and Arabic, and I
dream in both languages!

"Come over here!", I repeated, louder (he would have
to learn that I was not used to having to repeat
myself, and especially not to slaves, but this would
come later).

"Put your back against the bars, so I can reach that
hood and get it off you".  I deliberately tried to
sound friendly, as I wanted to start to get this man
to trust me.

He stumbled over towards me, and I could hear him
saying, even though it was muffled by the hood, "Thank
you, sir.  These bastards had me hooded and cuffed
like this, and I'll be fucking glad to get out of
them."

Poor man!  He was fooled by my English into thinking
that I was "one of him", rather than "one of them".
He would have to do a lot more before his cuffs were
removed!

I undid the press studs up the back of the hood (it
was not particularly close fitting as there was no
intention to restrict breathing, just to disorient by
depriving the slave of sight), and pulled it off.  I
felt a thrill run through me at this, my first,
contact with the slave's body.

The slave blinked a couple of times in the light,
looked around and saw me.  I am indeed an impressive
figure, especially when I am wearing my pure white
tribal robes on my 6'3" frame.  But his reaction was
not, as I would have expected, one of respect:  rather
,he considered me to be some sort of workman!

"Get these cuffs off next!", he snapped.

"What's happened to the 'sir'", I replied.  "A moment
ago, when I said I would take the hood off you, I'm
certain I heard a 'thank you' and a 'sir' in there!"

Hearing the naturally superior tone in my voice called
him to stop for a moment.  He had seen that I was
clearly of high status, and he began again  "Sorry,
sir.  Could I ask you to help me out of the cuffs
these bastards have ut me in, please?"

"Slave,  you need to understand one thing:  You
address me as 'master', when you are allowed to.  You
are usually only allowed to address me at all when
responding to one of my questions, and you do not
initiate questions or requests.  Is that clear?"

"'Master', 'Slave', don't be so fucking stupid!  I'm a
marine.  There are no such things as slaves today.
I'm a prisoner of war and I demand my rights....
I...."

"Silence!".  I used the full power of my voice to shut
him up instantly.

"Understand this, slave.  You used to be a marine.
Note the 'used to be'.  You are now a slave, and these
do indeed exist, and exist in very large numbers, here
today."

"You are not a prisoner of war, as you have been
enslaved by the courts for illegally entering our
country.  You are not only a slave, but you are my
slave.  I hold the complete power of life and death
over you, and can order any punishment for you that I
see fit."

"But I am known as a reasonable and generous master,
and do not punish my slaves capriciously, only when
they deserve it.  I am prepared to forget your current
disrespectful behaviour as I want us to have a good
master-slave relationship: one based on your respect
for me as a master and your understanding of the
status of a mere slave, not one based purely on fear
of punishment."

"I do not want to see you standing there in those
uncomfortable cuffs longer than necessary, so if you
ask properly, as a slave should, I will consider
removing them."

I stopped and waited, and the marine finally said

"Please, sir, take these cuffs off."

I thought that it was interesting that he had used a
"sir" again - was it my accent, as it was the one he
would have been used to hearing from the officer
class, or was he just tryinfg to curry favour with me?

"No, slave.  The proper form would be 'Master, would
you consider removing the cuffs from this slave so
that he can serve you better?'.  Have another go at
it!"

"Fuck you!  I'm not a slave, and you're not my
master!"

"Very well.  If I'm not your master, and you're not my
slave, I have no interest in removing your cuffs."

"I will give you one more minute to ask properly, then
I will leave.  I recommend that you look around your
cage and locate the water spigot - that's the thing
that looks like a tap in the corner there - it's
operated by your tongue, like an animal feeder, as you
may need it before I return."

I stood impatiently waiting for a reply, but saw he
was going to say absolutely nothing.  So I opened the
outer door, and before leaving, turned off all the
lights so that when it closed and the light streaming
in from the corridor was extinguished, he would be in
total blackness.


End Of Part 1