Anne
(Full name withheld)
Secondary School Teacher, London - continued from part 5
So, to cut a long story short, I had big plans for Mark. Two plans actually. I'd
never have dreamed either would work out so brilliantly.
For a few months, I'd felt ever more sorrier for Mrs A, our Conscription Liaison
Officer. Firstly, this is a very big school, so that's a lot of boys to process.
Secondly, we're quite near the city centre here, and the nearest slave training
camp is 30 miles away. She was always driving over to the area camps to see the
training staff. Then a whole bunch of new slave factories opened up outside of
town adding to her workload.
Because of her position, she was one of the lucky ones to actually get a
full-time house slave, who she often brought to school to help out. I'd often
admire him stood perfectly still to attention for hours outside Mrs A's office,
whilst she was out to lunch. He was a typical house slave - tall, slim and very
attractive - and it was almost a shame to see the female teachers, and students,
stopping to knee him squarely in the balls as they walked by. It's strange how
my mind works. I have no qualms whatsoever about using my knee on - how shall I
say - less attractive slaves chained up out of sight in a factory somewhere, ha
ha. But, I get a bit squeamish kneeing a handsome slave in the balls. Must be
some maternal instinct wanting to protect those handsome sperms. For ugly slaves
though, who cares?
Which brings us on to the subject of Mark. I'd taken over some of Mrs A's
responsibilities including counselling boys at Stage One, 4 years to
conscription. I'd ask about their interests just to get some initial ideas where
they'd end up. My first conversation with Mark was hilarious.
Me: Come in!
Mark: Sorry I'm late, Miss.
Me: Never mind. Stand on the mat in front of my desk.
I sat down and pretended to read his notes. He couldn't even stand still for a
second, fidgeting with his hands, shuffling his feet. Leaning back in my chair,
I looked up at his fat face.
Me: What plans do you have after leaving school, Mark?
Mark: Army, Miss. I want to apply.
Absurd! Let's recap here. Boys who are physically perfect and of above average
intelligence may, if they're lucky, be conscripted in to our army. Last year, of
the 207 boys who left, most had applied for the army conscription. 41 were
accepted, and half of them failed basic training and were sent straight to slave
camps.
Me: That's excellent news, Mark! I'm proud of you.
Standing up, I walked around my desk to pat Mark's arm before sitting on my desk
right in front of him. This would be fun. As I crossed my legs, Mark looked
down. How interesting to see that Mark was a legs man. It's well-known that
factory slaves who like ladies' legs suffer horribly, with the most horrific
scarring, at the hands of overseers. It's hardly surprising. Young men in their
prime, chained to machines for years on end with no sexual relief whatsoever,
will naturally gaze longingly at groups of short-skirted secretaries wandering
by chatting and joking, oblivious to the suffering of the slaves barely a few
feet away. More often than not, before those highly-desired, yet utterly
unattainable legs have walked out of sight, the slave screams in agony as a whip
slashes across his back or a toecap smashes into his testicles. As the long
factory evenings drag on and darkness falls, the slaves, still hard at work,
must imagine those legs now dancing in nearby nightclubs, which may as well be
ten thousand miles away. I doubt the dancing girls spare a second's thought to
the slaves' legs chained to machines as they're popping their happy pills.
Slaves never learn, and I made a mental note of Mark's fetish.
Me: But Mark, conscripts are killed every day in our deserts.
Mark: Yes, Miss, it's dangerous, but anything's better than slavery.
Me: Conscription, Mark! And what's so bad about serving your country for two
years? What's the alternative? I only wish I could've done it. Most ladies do.
A lie.
Mark: Yes, I agree Miss, but I'm terrified. I've seen the overseers who bring
the slaves in for the whip course, and what about that sportswear factory our
class visited last year? The men there worked from 6am to 10pm. You saw that one
man collapsing on the floor and what they did to him. What about their backs,
Miss, they were.....
Me: Now now, Mark. Most of the slaves we saw were life slaves, political
prisoners serving life sentences. I've never seen hard-working conscripts,
serving their country, being beaten like that.
Both lies.
Then, I had a great idea. Mark was quite right to be terrified. A bit of reverse
psychology was needed. On the school PA, I ordered Mrs A's house slave to report
to my office. Let's face it, house slaves have it easy. After a private
"briefing" with me, which left him in no doubt of the punishment he'd suffer if
he messed up, I gave him permission to talk to Mark about how rewarding life as
a house slave could be. Looking at his swollen testicles, scarred back and
bruised shins, it was clear that Mrs A gave him hell, but he obeyed my orders
well and made his job sound great!
Me: Get back to work, slave!
Slave: Yes Ma'am.
Me: So, Mark, don't be so glum. There's the army, and even if you're not picked,
you can see now that conscription isn't all about working in factories. I called
in that slave because I'm going to recommend you work as a house slave.
Mark: Wow! Thanks, Miss! Do you think I'm OK for that work?
Me: I certainly do! If I'm ever lucky enough to get a house slave, I'd certainly
consider you.
Mark: Wow! Thanks, Miss!
So, off he went on cloud nine. In his mind, his future was rosy: two years army
or two years as a house slave.
Without my even noticing, the next boy had come in to my office and was stood
before me. I tossed all of Mark's interview notes into the shredder. Taking out
a new form, I ticked one box:
Factory.
Mark's next conscription readiness counselling session was very brief. Mrs A and
I had agreed that Mark would help us with some of our admin tasks. Mrs A's idea
was that Mark wasn't in any sports team or club, so a bit of extra work would do
no harm. I told Mark that it'd look good on his record and help him reach his
goal: house slave, ha ha.
But could I do what I really wanted? How could I feasibly get Mark to work for
me at my house? He could do all the housework! My husband and I could chill out!
Surely his parents would object? My husband thought I was mad, but was in favour
of the idea! How could such a daft boy keep it a secret? In the end, it was my
husband's idea.
Mrs A was having a meeting at Mark's favourite place, the Nike factory from
hell. She'd taken her slave, so I'd asked Mark to stay late and help me. I'd
been very friendly to Mark all week, never failing to complement him on his
slight weight loss due to the weekly runs he now had to do. Now, with an
extremely short skirt which even Mrs A had noticed, it was now or never.
Me: Mark, would you like to go for a coffee?
Mark: Y-y-yes, Miss.
Me: The cafeteria is still open. Let's go there.
Mark: Y-y-yes, Miss.
We sat on a corner sofa. Mark's eyes didn't know where to look,
Me: Mark, take off your glasses. I want to see what your eyes look like.
Mark: Yes, Miss.
The huge glasses came off leaving deep ridges on the bridge of his nose.
Me: You've lovely eyes, Mark, why not have the laser operation?
Mark: Too expensive, Miss, and contact lenses hurt my eyes because of my hay
fever.
I might have known!
Me: That's a shame, but you can save up for the op. I often ask this question to
attractive men, Mark. What part of you body would you want to change?
Mark: You know that, Miss.
Me: Your birthmark?
Mark: Yes, Miss. It can't be operated on. It's too big.
Me: Mark, men are so superficial. That wouldn't bother women in the slightest.
Besides, you could wear make up over it?
Mark: People would laugh, Miss.
Mark, you fat shit, they'd laugh whatever you did, I mused to myself.
Me: Well, if I was asked the same question, I wouldn't know what to change, ha
ha, it'd be just about everything.
Mark: No, Miss. All the boys like you.
Me: Even you, Mark?
Mark: Y-y-yes, Miss.
Me: Wow, maybe I'll skip the operation. Pity because my thighs are quite fat.
Mark looked down at my exposed thigh. I'd been playing hockey since I was 8, so
my legs sure weren't fat.
Mark: No, Miss.
I leant over to squeeze of Mark's fat thighs.
Me: Now, that's muscle from all that running, whereas if you feel mine....
He did! He actually did! Slowly he reached out. Even through the nylon I could
feel his fat sweaty hand on my thigh. Then he stopped in horror realising what
he'd done. Whack! I slapped his face.
Me: What on earth! Sexual assault! You'll get seven years slavery for this!
I stormed off to a pair of overseers nearby watching the Stage Four boys stood
to attention. Mark was in tears, ha ha. They didn't enslave fourteen-year-old
boys, not yet anyway, but he wasn't to know that. He ran off home terrified.
It didn't surprise me in the least that Mark wasn't at school the next day, and
wouldn't answer his phone. This, however, gave me the perfect idea, but I just
had to check the gymnasium, oh yes! Oh yes! This was going to be a fun day. My
heart was racing! Telling everyone how worried I was, I offered to go to his
house to "see he was OK", only to return to the staff room a few minutes later
pretending my car hadn't started. So, it was back to the gym. The whip course
with five slaves was in full swing, so to speak. I approached the younger of the
two overseers sitting in a chair observing proceedings, and above the noise had
to shout.
Me: What school are you going to after this?
Overseer: Griffin 17. Why?
Me: I'm a bit under the weather. Could you drop me off home on your way?
They were, of course, only too pleased to help the overworked Deputy
Conscription Liaison officer. After the slaves were chained by their wrists to a
high bar at the back of the open truck, we were on our way...to Mark's house.
Sitting between the two overseers, I secretly texted for a taxi to take me back
to school after I'd had my fun.
Overseer: These new government blocks, Section 28/3A, Section 29/3B. Where
exactly is your place?
Shit!
Me: I'm new here, and I'm a bit disorientated, what with this fever...
Overseer: Well, here we are anyway. Section 42/3F. What a nice area.
This was a snide sarcastic comment in reference to this appalling neighbourhood.
Every window was barred and heavy metal doors fronted each house. Mark's front
garden was littered with rubbish.
Me: Yes, I hate it here. Now, my husband is asleep upstairs, he works nights.
Can you put my mind at rest and just check the windows for me?
Both overseers got out and circled the house, not really knowing why. I knew
exactly why - to scare the hell out of Mark hiding upstairs.
Me: Oh no! Now I've forgotten my keys. Can you shout up at my husband? His
name's Mark.
So, the overseers banged on windows and doors shouting. An elderly couple from
the neighbouring house came out to investigate the fuss as echoes of Mark Mark
filled the street. I stood on the front garden path feigning illness, but with a
warm feeling almost sexual about what Mark must have been going through. He was
in there, no doubt about it. He'd have looked out of the windows in sheer
terror. He'd have seen me standing there, the two whip-yielding overseers
knocking on doors and shouting his name. Finally, he'd have seen the five
slaves, hands chained above their heads in full view, and thought that he was
soon to join them. Sadly, all good things come to an end. The older overseer
started shouting Mark Mark, your wife's home, which was certainly not part of
the plan.
Me: Oh my phone! He's popped out to the supermarket, back in a few minutes.
Don't let me keep you from school.
Overseer: Well, if you feel safe....
She was only too pleased to leave that awful street, and it was just in time as
my taxi pulled up. I don't remember the journey back, I was trying not to wet
myself with laughter at my trick.
Back at school, there was no time to lose. I called his mother at work. Needless
to say, he hadn't discussed his "crime", and his mother said he'd been too sick
to attend school that day, but would be OK tomorrow. I would be waiting.
Me: Mark, where were you yesterday?
Mark: Sick, at home, Miss.
Me: Did you see us outside?
Mark: Yes, Miss, you and the overseers.
Me: And you didn't open up? Why?
Mark: I was terrified, Miss. I didn't do anything wrong. I just...
Me: Maybe I overreacted Mark. I've decided not to press charges. Not for the
time being, that is.
Mark: Miss?
Me: First, try that again and you'll be enslaved for a very long time indeed.
Second, I want you to do some work for me as a penance, to teach you some
discipline. Of course, you don't have to do it, but it's your choice: Work for
me or spend the rest of your teenage years in chains. Clear?
Mark: Yes, Miss.
Me: Furthermore, if your work isn't up to my high standards, I'll press charges.
Also, it's in your interests not to tell people about this, don't you think? If
word gets out about this work, people will then know you molested me, and
believe me you don't want that, do you?
Mark: No, Miss.
Me: Now, get to class.
He thought he'd got off likely. However, the very minor sexual assault was noted
in his records which, as we'll see later, doubled his length of service.
Meanwhile, I got my very own house slave, sort of: Mark, whose every weekend was
spent cleaning, gardening, and you name it he had to do it.
Me: It's all good practice Mark, for when you're lucky enough to be a house
slave.
Mark: Yes, Miss.
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Well, I'll tell the final part of Mark's sad story soon. If you thought he was
now a house slave, you're very wrong. Thanks to me, he was never considered for
anything except factory work. Also due to our little meeting in the cafeteria,
he was given three and a half years of slavery instead of the usual two.
So, where is he now? The Nike Factory of course. Mrs A now works at the Ministry
of Conscription (Labour) in the city, so I became the school's Conscription
Liaison Officer. Needless to say, I'm a regular visitor to the Nike Factory. I
made a point of going to watch him being chained to his machine. As he stood to
attention, a life slave hammered the permanent rivets into the shackle, the
tears rolled down his cheeks. He knew full well he'd be in that heavy chain for
three and a half years minimum. He'd never step further than a chains length
from that machine. The big sewing machine had graffiti on it, presumably written
by witty overseers:
Home Sweet Home
If you want sex, call 018 2398072, the phone's only a couple of chain lengths
away.
And my favourite:
If you read this, you're not working hard enough. WORK HARDER SLAVE!
Mark didn't adjust well to life in a birthday suit. The overseers and progress
controllers showed no mercy whatsoever for Mark's weak constitution. After being
severely beaten almost daily to begin with, Mark's now coping fairly well with
their brutal regime. He's been chained to the same sewing machine for the past
two years becoming quite a good little worker. He's lost so much weight that his
ankle chain had to be cut off and a smaller one fitted, ha ha. In fact, as Mark
stood to attention before me just yesterday, I had to smile. Everything about
him was smaller now, apart from of course his poor testicles which had swollen
to the size of two tennis balls.
Me: Are your balls sore, slave?
Mark: Yes, Ma'am.
Remember what I think about ugly slaves' balls?
Mark: Th-th-ank you, Ma'a-m.
Me: Back to work, slave.
