Date: Thu, 25 Sep 2003 23:49:13 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: A Slave's Life, Part 1

A SLAVE'S LIFE, Part 1

By Pete Brown     petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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


There was something wrong when I woke up.  I usually
snap awake and go from deep sleep to full
consciousness without any intervening period.  I know
a lot of young guys like me like to just lie there and
would stay in bed all day, but I'm a morning person,
I'm wide awake, and ready to go.  There was something
else different, too - I didn't have my usual morning
hard-on.

When I say that I don't lie there like a lot of guys
my age, that isn't quite true - the first thing I have
to do is get rid of my erection, and I think wanking
when you first wake up is one of the best things a man
can do for himself: I'm at my brightest and best, and
my thoughts can run riot as I stroke my cock and
fondle my balls.  I rarely even have to play with my
tits in the morning to keep myself hard, so I've got
both hands free to concentrate on my tackle as I wank.


But this morning was different - I was slow and
lethargic.  I knew I was awake, but somehow my brain
wasn't functioning properly.  And as I reached down
for my cock, it was flaccid, just lying there between
my thighs like a warm, moist slug.  Then other
sensations started to come to me - for one thing, I'd
still got a T-shirt on, and I always sleep naked.  I'd
obviously taken my shorts off, though, as I could feel
my cock against my thighs.  What the fuck had happened
to me?  And there was something else curious, too - my
body was starting to report all kinds of little
differences between what I was used to and "here" -
the smell of the bed, for example:  there wasn't my
own man scent all around me.  I moved my knees up and
down experimentally, to waft air from the bed over my
face, and there wasn't that familiar smell of sweat,
dried cum and general body odour that I usually get.
And the sheets felt differently - hell, that was
it.... I usually sleep under a duvet, and now this
felt like a rough, scratchy blanked on top of me.

I forced myself to try to remember what I'd been doing
the night before.  Had I picked up a woman and gone
back to her place?  I reached around, hoping to feel a
warm body for a clue, but I seemed to be alone.  Thank
Christ for that!  The last time this had happened I'd
had way too much to drink after the match (I play in
the club's first team), picked up a woman, gone back
to her place, fucked her, fallen asleep, then couldn't
even remember her name in the morning - in fact, I
couldn't even remember that I was with a woman, and it
was only when she came in with coffee for me and I
almost jumped out of my skin in surprise that I
vaguely remembered what had happened.  She was really
pissed off, and spread the word around that I was just
a casual fucker, only interested in sex and not a
"proper relationship" - well, that was true, of
course, but it didn't do me any good with most of the
girls who hang around the club and it took me a long
time to get my next "date".  Actually, it's not too
bad for picking up casual dates at my club - since
they built the gym we've had a string of nubile young
women joining just as gym members, and the joke is
that they only spent all the money on the new
facilities to provide us studs in the first team with
sex.  Well, rugby's a man's thing, isn't it?  I know
they do play women's rugby now, but, frankly, who'd
fancy those women?

Guys need to bond together, especially in their early
twenties, and I really enjoyed the twice-weekly
training sessions and the Saturday matches:  it helped
me to keep fit, as working in a boring office (even
though I had excellent "prospects") would otherwise
have let me slide into sloth, like a lot of the guys I
still kept in contact with from university.  And as I
was in the first team, I did a lot of other training
as well to maintain my fitness - I usually went for a
long run every morning that I wasn't training or
playing.

But where the fuck was I now?  What had happened?  I
remembered the match - we'd won - and that incredible
feeling of complete exhaustion that comes over you as
you finally come off the field and you know you've run
as hard and as fast as you can, and have put all your
force into the scrums and tackling the other team.
It's a real man's game, not like those wimps who play
soccer.  And then the communal bath, with all the
heat, and the steam, and the comradeship of the other
guys as you all lie there stark naked, drinking the
first of the after match beers and talking about your
girl friends.

Of course I'd gone on to have a few more beers, too,
who doesn't?  But I can take a lot - my tall,
big-framed body has a big mass because of all my
muscles, and the alcohol hardly affects me (not that
I'm one of those vile body builder  "muscles on
muscles" types - I'm lean and athletic, and my
strength comes from all the regular, different types
of workout.  I can't imagine spending hours a day in a
gym, and all those supplements and things, trying to
get bigger biceps, or whatever).  So where the fuck
was I now?  What had happened after that?

Only one way to find out - I threw aside the blanked,
and pushed my feet to the floor, then stood up and
stretched all of my 6'2" in an effort to finally throw
off sleep and wake up.  As I felt life returning to me
I saw that I had indeed only got my T shirt on - I
could kind of fell my cock and balls hanging down from
under the hem, which was resting on my bum at the
back.  I scratched myself, as you do, and looked
around.  Other than the bed and a bucket in the
corner, the room was bare - just plain painted walls,
and thermoplastic tiles on the floor that felt cold
under my bare feet.  Where the fuck were the rest of
my clothes?  And my watch - I never took that off, and
I always slept with it on, but now my wrist was bare.
Fuck me, I must have been out of it last night, to
have taken that off (or let someone take it off?).
Mind you, this didn't look like some bird's house -
where the fuck was I?

I went over to the door, intending to peer out and see
what could be seen, but there was no handle.  It
looked a tough door, too, not like a domestic door in
a house.  Oh Christ - this was looking bad - it seemed
to be some sort of cell.  What the fuck had I done
last night, to get arrested?

Another problem was presenting itself now, too - I
needed to piss.  All guys do, when they first get up,
don't they?  So I banged on the door, hoping to get
someone to come.  It sounded curiously "dead", though,
and I just got the impression there wasn't anyone out
there listening.  As I'd started to do something about
it, my need to piss was now almost unbearable, and I
looked at the bucket - there was nothing for it, was
there?   The sound of my big stream of gold hitting
the metal was odd - we all get used to pissing in
lavatories and urinals, don't we, and you're not used
to hearing your piss splash against bare metal, which
is itself acting as a sort of amplifier.  Still, it
was good to at least get rid of that problem, and I
massaged my cock to get the last few drops of piss out
- well, you need to, don't you?  Even though I didn't
have one of those very long, droopy foreskins hanging
long past the end of my cock, I wasn't "cut" like some
of the guys on the team:  you could always see my piss
slit as my 'skin covered about half my cock head, but
even so it was possible for piss, sweat and the odd
bit of pre-cum to get caught under it and it was just
as much trouble as having a full 'skin to keep clean.
In some ways I envied the guys on the team who were
cut, as it seemed to be easier for them to remain
"sweet" and fresh - you never know, after all, when
the opportunity to get a good sucking off from a woman
you've picked up will arise, do you?  We often talked
about things like this in the bath after matches, but
I told them they didn't know what they were missing
-when you wank, having  your 'skin slide backwards and
forwards over your cockhead is fantastic - I don't
know how those cut guys manage!

It was odd, really - usually when I've had a heavy
night of drinking I wake up with a raging thirst, and
although there was nothing to drink, I didn't feel all
that thirsty.  So I didn't think I'd had a big drunk
last night then done something to get me locked up.
And the police took stuff like your belt, didn't they,
to stop suicides, not all your clothes?  So why was I
here?  And where the fuck was "here"?

I tried banging n the door again, but it still sounded
"dead", so the only other thing to do was to go and
lie down again on the bed.  I pulled the blanket over
me and just lay there - I was worried, now, as I hate
having things in my life I can't explain.  There was
absolutely nothing to do, so I decided to have a wank
- that always passes the time, doesn't it, and takes
your mind off other things?  So I spat big gobs onto
my hand, and started to lubricate my cock with it and
gradually began to stroke myself into that special
place you go to when your climax is near.  Oh shit!  I
stopped suddenly, as I remembered where I was - just
the blanket, and me.  Somehow I didn't want to shoot
all over the blanket or the sheet on the base of the
bed - I didn't know who might come in and look, and
the thought of having dried cum (or even worse, wet
cum stains) visible was awful.  I know some guys catch
their cum and then eat it, but I'd tried that once and
it almost made me sick - yes, I know it doesn't taste
as bad as it smells, but somehow the huge, semi-fluid
semi-gelatinous pool of my spunk made me feel totally
nauseated.  I don't know how women get on with sucking
a man off - I do like to shoot into their mouths as I
can't stand all the mess if I shoot over their faces
and over their breasts - but I suppose they get used
to the taste if they really want to please their men.

I was too far gone now, though, and I felt my balls
contracting and my spunk forcing itself along my cock.
 With a big groan and sigh I felt my hot cum pumping
out all over me - my hand was covered, of course, and
my hard stomach, and as the after shocks died away and
I relaxed, I knew my pubic hair was covered in it.
The blanket fell down onto me, and, oh fuck, yes, it
was covered in my cum, too, where the initial big
spurts had fired themselves upwards.  So what was I
going to do now?  Not only had I soiled the bed, but
my hand, body and pubic hair was all covered in my
thick slime.  Suppose someone was to come in?  Oh
shit!  I did the only thing I could do - I got up,
pulled my T off and used it to mop over myself - but
it's never very successful, is it?  Once your cum gets
into your pubic hair you do really need to have a good
shower, or at least stand on tiptoe so you can wash
yourself in a wash basin to get away all those strands
that cling to the hairs.  And even hough I scrubbed
away at it, I wasn't very good at cleaning the blanked
either - there was a very visible big wet damp patch
still on it, even when I'd finished.

There was no possibility of wearing the T again as I'd
shot a really monster load, even for me, so I balled
it up and tossed it into the corner by the bucket, and
lay back on the bed, now totally naked.  I really had
no idea of how long 'd been there - without my watch,
even the time I'd been "awake" was a bit of a mystery
as I thought I'd drifted in and out of a light sleep a
couple of times.  But when I felt the stubble on my
chin, I thought it must be about thirty six hours
since I'd last shaved on Saturday morning before going
off to the match, so it might now be late Sunday
afternoon.  Surely someone would have noticed I wasn't
there by now? - but, probably not:  all my mates on
the team would think I'd gone off with a bird, so
wouldn't be surprised when I hadn't turned up at the
pub for a lunchtime drink.  And I'd got no close
family really - I only called my sister very
occasionally.  I suppose someone would notice tomorrow
morning, at work, but it wasn't that unusual for guys
just not to turn up - in the web design game, if
you're offered a better job over the weekend, you
often just take it.

I was getting really worried by now - for one thing
there were the rumblings of hunger, and for another I
started to think about what would happen if I needed
to crap - surely I couldn't use that bucket? It's one
thing to share your "cell", as that's how I was now
thinking about it, with a bucket of piss - but with
some vile smelly turds?  I was getting thirsty, too,
and thought about getting up and beating on the door
again.  But somehow I sensed that it would be useless.

I don't know how long I lay there, but the deathly
quiet of my "cell" was broken by a loud "snick".  I
started upwards, and saw that the door had half
opened.  Wrapping the blanket around me - I'm not
ashamed of my body, but even so, when you're in a
strange place, and you don't know what the fuck's
happening, you tend to try to cover up, don't you?

I peered into the corridor outside the door, and all
that could be seen was a row of identical doors.  I
walked cautiously along, trying the doors as  I went,
but they had no handles either and there was nothing
else to do - especially as, just as I'd left it, the
door to my own "cell" had closed and was now immovable
when I pushed at it.

At the end of the corridor, though, there was an open
door, and inside there was a lavatory, a big shower,
and a washbasin!

It felt so good to be able to crap, then shower to get
my body really clean, and then to stand and shave off
my stubble with a disposable razor - you feel so much
better, don't you, when you're fresh and smart?  I
looked around for deodorant but there wasn't any, and
I noticed that the shampoo and shower soap, and the
shaving cream, were all unperfumed - very unusual.
Best of all, though was that on a shelf by the side of
the shower were some clothes - not what I would have
chosen for myself, but clothes, never the less.  I
pulled them on gratefully, and they seemed to be a
good fit, if that's the right word - the top was a
plain white cotton singlet that left my shoulders
exposed and had very deep, loose arm holes stretching
half way to my waist.  It was that sort of cotton
that's very thin, almost translucent, and even though
it was not tight on me, I just knew that the shadow of
my thick thatch of chest hair was easily visible -
even where it was not poking out above the low
neckline.  It was too short, as well, not even coming
to the top of my pubic thatch.

The shorts were in that satin material they used to
make sports clothes out of until the Lycra stuff
became fashionable, and felt silky smooth on me.  The
legs were cut very high, though, so you could see most
of my big strong thighs, and they were very low-cut,
barely coming over the top of my bush:  I knew that if
I bent down the top of my ass crack would be exposed,
and, as it as, there was a visible gap between the top
of the shorts and the bottom of the singlet.
Unlike most sports shorts I'd ever owned, these didn't
have one of those "pouch" linings, either, and had the
legs not been relatively tight around my thighs my
cock would have fallen out.  As it was, it nestled
snugly in the silky fabric, trapped between the short
legs and the low waist band - I just hoped I didn't
get an erection!

A door in the other side of the shower room now
opened, and I went through.  I was in a brightly-lit
space, very bare, with a man in a dark business suit
behind a desk.

"What the fuck's going on....."

"Silence, until you're spoken  to...."

"I will not!  Now, tell me what the fuck's...."

I never got to finish the sentence, as I was howling
with pain and leaping up and down trying not to let my
feet touch the floor.

"Now, silence, until you're spoken to!  All over this
facility the floors have embedded wires, and I can
send those painful shocks through them, as you have
just experienced.  I have rubber-soled shoes, as do
all the guards here.  But all prisoners have bare
feet.  So, you see, we can control you.  Either obey,
or suffer the consequences."

"Anyway", the man continued, "I know that you're
wondering where you are, and why you're here.  All our
prisoners want to know that.  Firstly, let me reassure
you that you're not in trouble with the police.... You
didn't drink too much, smash a place up, and get
arrested.  A lot of men think that.  But before you
start to congratulate yourself, let me tell you that,
sadly for you, the position is far worse."

"You have been taken, to order.  A collector ordered a
man like you, and we are supplying..."

"What the fuck is this?  'A collector....', 'Taken to
order'?  Are you mad...."

I was rolling around on the floor this time, as the
shock had been much more intense, almost disabling.

"This is for your own good", the man continued calmly.
"So listen well, and hear me out.  There are certain
rich men in the world - very rich men - who have
achieved everything they can.  They run huge
corporations, control thousands of workers' lives, and
make a significant difference to economic life all
over the planet.  They play expensive sports, own
houses on many continents, fly around in their private
jets.  What else is there for them do?  What can they
spend their wealth on?  What is the ultimate pleasure
for a man who is used to ordering affairs on such a
scale?"

"I'll tell you", he went on.  "The ultimate control
that a man can exercise is to own slaves.  A slave
owner completely orders and controls the life of a
slave - he can command when the slave rises and when
he sleeps, what he eats and when, what he works at,
whether he is allowed to breed.  The owner can have he
slave tattooed and branded, whipped or otherwise
punished for disobedience, and, of course exercise the
ultimate control over him:  he can sell him, just as
he would sell any household chattel."

"Of course the ownership of one man by another,
although a long established feature of human society,
is now illegal in most countries.  But there are
certain parts of the world - islands in the Indian
Ocean, deep in the Amazonian rain forests, on the vast
plains of Central Asia, for example - where a truly
rich man can indulge himself.  In most of these places
the law still prohibits slavery, but appropriate
levels of illicit payment to the local police and
civil authorities can enable a powerful man to enjoy
the ultimate fruits of his efforts by owning and
managing slaves."

"A lot of slaves are simply the human waste from very
poor countries - blacks from Africa, where life is
very cheap, some of the teaming billions from India
where parents are only too glad to sell their teenage
sons,  uneducated peasants from most South American
countries... Those sorts.  But the real connoisseurs
amongst slave owners want to own good looking,
educated, Westerners.  To some extent there's no
satisfaction in owning many hundreds of the "peasant"
types as to them their slavery is almost a relief -
they get properly fed, enough water, access to proper
medical care, and generally live a life that's better
than they were experiencing before.  But to a well
educated man from a typical Western country, slavery
is hell: no freedom, no choice, and the requirement to
obey your owner absolutely all the time, or risk
punishment."

"It's no wonder that these very rich men want slaves
like this:  the satisfaction of 'taming' a
sophisticated Westerner, used to his freedom, is so
much more intense. And with their education, they area
able to perform so many more useful tasks."

He looked at me, and I saw that he had given me
permission to speak.

"You're mad!  They could never get way with it!  And
why enslave me?  If someone wants me to design a web
site for him, he can just hire me...."

The man roared with laughter!  "No, you won't be
required to design a web site, I shouldn't think!
We've taken you to order, as your owner specified a 23
year old, over six foot, properly muscled.... Sitting
at a terminal is the last thing you're likely to do!
Almost certainly you're destined for a life of hard
physical work of some type, and that's what will be so
appealing for your owner:  he'll know he's chosen to
squander all your education, all your training, so
that he can use your body in a way that pleases him.
And believe me, we're not mad - we do this hundreds of
times a year.  We're one of the largest agencies in
this field, and we routinely search out and 'take'
young men like you.  Haven't you ever noticed the
statistics that occasionally appear about the number
of young men mysteriously vanishing from home, never
to be heard from again?  Well some of the might be
suicides - the rate is very high for men in the 20 to
30 age group - but the majority have been taken by
specialist firms like this to be shipped as slaves.
It's really easy to do, once you've made the
investment in the infrastructure, as we have:  a few
strong guards, a 'chance' meeting with the man in a
pub or club, a small pill in his drink, then you
'help' him to the door."

"If you doubt any of this", he went on, "Look at this
facility:  escape-proof soundproof cells, the
under-floor wires.... You wouldn't build something
like this if there wasn't a need for it, would you?
What do you think was behind all those other doors on
the corridor you came along?  I'll tell you:  other
young men, just like you, awaiting a time that's
convenient for us to ship them out to their new
owners.  The only reason you weren't in that cell for
a couple more days is that there's a flight later this
afternoon that we need to get you on - usually we like
to leave the men locked up, silent and hungry, a
bucket of stinking bodily waste in the corner, for at
least two days - it starts to focus their minds on
what's happening to them."

"Well, that's you fixed, then!"  I couldn't help
interrupting.  "My passport's with my sister as I left
it there when I got back from holiday, and ...."

The man was laughing.  "You are so naive, like a lot
of the men who pass through here.  You don't think
you'll need a passport, do you?  You won't be going
trough customs and emigration - you'll be neatly
crated up, as cargo, travelling as all goods do around
the world, in the cargo hold.   There'll be no trace
of you ever leaving the country, and you'll just be
one of those young men who has 'disappeared' - if
anyone notices!  They'll wonder at that rugby club of
yours when you don't turn up for practice for a couple
of weeks, but none of the men you know there are
old-time friends.  Your employer will write you off as
someone else who's just found another job.  Your
sister won't worry for a few months as you're not a
close family, and by then it will be too late as the
trail will be cold:  one of our agents will have paid
up your landlord, and moved your stuff out of your
rented flat."

"Let me give you something to think about", he went
on.  "You're unusual, as your new owner has specified
that you are to be shipped clothed - the majority of
the stock that leaves here goes naked, as it's so much
easier to deal with human shipments when the stock is
nude - fitting catheters to deal with the urine on a
long journey in a crate, and so on, is so much easier.
 But your new owner has specified shipping "lightly
clothed" - I expect he wants to savour the delight for
himself of making you strip for him:  many of the
newly enslaved are touchingly concerned about their
nudity originally, and I expect your new owner wants
to experience this first hand."

"Let me warn you not to try to escape from here, or
whilst you're being shipped, though - as you have
seen, we will punish you if you disobey.  Do not think
that we would hesitate for a moment to have you killed
if there was the slightest risk of our operation being
compromised.  You'll be surrounded by our guards, of
course, and any attempt to break loose and 'make a run
for it' will  result in your being shot."

"Right!", he finished finally. "You'll have lots of
questions, I know, but you may not ask any of them.
Now - put your hands behind your back."

I stood there, dumbly, and he snapped "Now - or do you
want a shock that will incapacitate you, and then I'll
just do it anyway?"

So I put my hands behind my back, and he got up and
came over, and I felt myself being handcuffed!  I've
read about it, of course - having someone cuff your
wrists behind your back, and I know some guys get
turned on by the thought. But it's actually horrible -
you feel so powerless, so defenceless - if he'd tried
to grab my cock, I couldn't have stopped him.  If he'd
pushed me, I couldn't retaliate. If he'd tripped me, I
wouldn't have been able to save myself as I fell.
Somehow it seemed as if I'd let all my freedom slip
away in this act - I was no longer really able to even
contemplate making a break for freedom. It was if I
was already a captive - no, as if I'd somehow already
entered a new life where someone other than me was
already starting to rule things for me.

He went back to his desk, and returned holding a small
tag - rather like a luggage tag - on a steel chain.
This was passed around my neck and there was a "snap"
from the catch.  The tag was hanging down just below
my throat, and I could feel its coldness against my
skin.  I hate wearing jewellery, and I don't like to
see other men doing so, whether its rings on the
fingers or necklaces - there had been quite a thing
recently, I know, for guys to wear gold or silver
chains - some quite chunky - around the neck, but in
our club we didn't do it.  Anyone wearing something
like that on the rugby field was likely to find it
torn off in one of the rucks (and by his own team
mates, too!).

He didn't waste any time then, and pressed a button on
the desk.  A guy in neatly pressed chinos and a white
polo short came in, and the man told him to "take him
away to the airport."

I was led through what seemed to be a large building -
evidently this was quite an operation - and I wanted
to ask the man who was leading the way more.  But the
moment I started a question, he stopped, turned, and
said "You were told to shut the fuck up in there.  You
saw the penalty for carrying on talking.  Now, do as
you were told, before I punish you.  The first rule a
slave has to learn is that he is here to obey, not to
question.  You have no need to know more, no need to
think, no need to do anything other than obey - simple
obedience to your owner's orders, complete and
absolute subservience to his will, is all that is
required of you.  So... Shut the fuck up, slave boy!"

It was awful being refereed to like this.  I wasn't a
slave, and I wasn't a boy! I was a mature man, capable
of living my own life, making my own decisions.  Yet
here I was being led, scantily clad, through this
place, and the far of punishment was actually making
me start to do exactly as I was told - I didn't want
to go on speaking in case I was in fact punished!  Of
course I'd taken hard knocks in my time - as a rugby
player you expect to get a bit battered and bruised,
don't you, and that ability to treat men roughly is
all part of the game.  But no one had ever
deliberately set out to hurt me before - no one had
ever caused me so much deliberate pain that I had
stopped what I was doing, immediately (well, not since
dad last spanked me, when I was about seven!).

Ultimately the guard leading me came to an external
door, and there was another guard sitting behind glass
in a little cubicle.  "Shipping a slave  - permission
to leave the building?" My guard asked, and the man in
the cubicle reached out with the kind of gun thing you
see at checkouts in supermarkets, and pointed it at
the tag hanging around on my neck.  He consulted a
screen on his desk, and said "OK, there's a van
outside.  Door opening."

We went out into a yard, that was totally enclosed,
where there was a white van waiting with its back
doors open. Even if the yard hadn't been totally
enclosed and I was worrying about the threat to shoot
me, I probably wouldn't have tried to run at this
point - it's not easy with your hands cuffed behind
your back, you know, especially when the guard
accompanying you looks as if he's in good shape and
works out regularly.

The guard gestured for me to get in the back of the
van, then said "It's an hour to the airport.  The
doors are locked, but we don't want any silly attempts
to escape, now do we?  You'll see that the floor of
the van has he same pattern of lines that  we have in
the building - any noise, any commotion when we're
stopped in traffic or anything and the driver will
shock you, or really turn up the juice and stun you."

So I lay there in the back of the van, bracing myself
with my legs against the walls as it drove through the
streets.  I tried to imagine where we were in relation
to the geography of London, but we seemed to be taking
a maze of normal city road, and I didn't really
recognise any of the motorways or anything.  The
journey went on and on, and I realised that I probably
wasn't going to be able to escape - an organisation
that followed men in transit with some type of tag,
and who bothered to have special vans for transporting
them, was unlikely to slip up and leave some chink in
their arrangements, was it?  Still, I might catch a
glimpse of a policeman, or an airport security guard
of some kind, and then I'd do everything  I could to
scream and shout and attract his attention.

When the van did finally stop and the doors were
opened, my hopes were dashed - we were way out on a
big concrete space, one of those holding areas you see
at airports, drawn up by the side of a big executive
jet.  No policemen or any other officials in sight!
Two of the polo- shirted chino'd guards were standing
there, and as they "helped" me out of the van to stand
in front of them (rather roughly, I thought).  One of
them ran one of the scanner things over my tag again,
looked at a little inbuilt screen on it, and said to
his companion "Yes, this is the one.  Let's load him
onto the flight."

"Look, please. Enough is enough.... Why don't you let
me go, and I'll say no...."

I never got to finish the sentence, as one of the two
guards slammed his rubber-soled boot down on to my
naked foot - he pushed it very hard down, almost
totally crushing my instep, and I fell to the ground,
shouting with pain.

The two men stood there, looking down at me as I
rolled around  the concrete clutching at my foot and
trying to "make the pain go away", and they laughed.
"Always have one last try, don't they?", one said to
the other. "They've always led a nice, civilised life
and they think that rational argument can fix things.
As usual, he's trying to bargain with us!  As if
anyone would negotiate with a slave!  Still, perhaps
that's taught him that you don't need sophisticated
electrical stuff to really hurt a slave when he's
disobedient."

"You, slave, get on your feet NOW", the other barked.
"Me and my mate are expert at giving a man's body a
good kicking, and causing real hurt without permanent
damage.  There's nothing we like more than an unruly
slave, as it allows us to practice our kicking before
we go off to gang fights at the weekend.  Now, UP!"

I struggled to stand up, finding it very hard to do so
without the help of my hands, and stood there all
covered in dust from where I'd rolled on the concrete.
  "Should we clean him up - take him over to the
hanger and hose him down a bit?"

"No - if they want, they can clean him on the plane -
I've been on board this one, and the owner's got it
fitted up as a complete suite for himself - bedroom,
bathroom with a proper big bath in it, everything.  If
they want the slave clean, they can give him a bath as
he flies off to his new life!"

I didn't like hearing the way they spoke - all this
"If they want the slave clean... They can give him a
bath" - there was no element of choice, no "If he
wants to clean himself up..." kind of discussion.


They led me - still hurting - up the steps of the
plane, and inside it was unbelievably luxurious - not
like a commercial jet at all.  It was all dark wood,
deep carpets ( that were so tempting to my feet that I
wanted to stop and just wriggle my toes down into the
thick rich pile), and big leather furniture.  On we
went though through a room fitted out as an office,
with PCs and stuff, then along a corridor (dividing of
a bedroom?) and finally through a heavy-looking door.

Beyond this was not even a normal aeroplane interior -
no plastic and soft lighting.   Instead you could see
all the construction of the machine as the ribs,
cables, and all the other stuff were clearly visible.
Standing around on the floor, strapped down, were
crates and cartons of various kinds, and I guessed his
must be some sort of cargo hold.  The only unusual
feature was in the far corner where, against the wall
there was a kind of cell, or cage - about four feet
square, with stainless steel bars running floor to
ceiling.  The guards led me to this, opened the door,
and told me to get inside.  Once in, they closed and
locked the door with a heavy-looking lock, then told
me to turn around.

It was a relief to get he cuffs off, as standing and
lying all that time with my arms behind my back had
become very uncomfortable and I felt as if I was
beginning to lose sensation in them.  To the best of
my ability, as the cell was so small, I tried to
spread and stretch my arms and to rub life into my
cramped muscles - I got all those "pins and needles"
sensations as the blood flow returned fully.

"Right, slave boy", one of the guars said "Make
yourself comfortable!  Take off's not for about an
hour, and it's a long, long flight for you, even in
this jet."

With that, the two men turned and went back out
through the door, leaving me alone there in the cell.
Well, they said "get comfortable", but have you ever
tried it in such a small space?  I could stand up, of
course, but the thought of doing that for what might
be a very long time seemed stupid.   Lying down wasn't
possible, and I tried to sit - but in the confined
space my back was pressed against the bars or the
metal wall of the aircraft, and my legs had to be all
hunched up.  There wasn't any padding or anything, and
I was sitting on the metal floor of the aircraft.  I
don't think overweight guys with big fat asses realise
how painful it can be for a guy with real muscle only
to try to sit on a perfectly hard surface - there's
nothing to really cushion you, is there?

I don't know how long I sat there for, but after dome
time I saw out of one of the windows four men coming
towards the plane - they were in those dark blue
uniforms beloved of airlines. Two seemed very
obviously in charge, and two much younger ones were
following them.

End of part 1