Jenny Atherton
Office of Works
Birmingham
28 July 2020
It was just like being at college again - girls, girls and women everywhere.
Hardly a bloke in sight.
++++
It was the week before summer break. Bad timing for guys. That day five or six
years ago when we all crowded into the college canteen to watch the Government
broadcast has never left me. Because of certain war in our oilfields, all men
under 25 were ordered to return to conscription within three days - either army
or slavery. John, my boyfriend at the time, had already done two years in some
factory. He had never spoken about it, but at that announcement, John had burst
into tears at the news as did most of the guys there. A week later, they had all
gone and college life went on for the rest of us.
I promised John I would wait for him, but within days I was dating Sir Marcus
Bowen-Barnes from an Upper Family (people high up on our social scale who are
influential in government and own most of the newer businesses) who was, of
course, exempted from any form of conscription. What a great three years that
was. I lived in luxury, and John became ancient history. What was I supposed to
do? For all I knew, the war would last a long time and he would be in chains for
years doing his work.
I had made a good choice. Three years later, I was invited to a function at
British Aerospace 2 where Marcus had just been nominated to the Board of
Directors. Wow, Marcus's family were important. A procession of chauffer-driven
Jaguars took Marcus's parents and two sisters into the complex, we followed in
Marcus's Aston and pulled up next to red carpets leading in. All the office
staff lined up to greet the Bowen-Barnes. I felt like royalty strutting on that
plush carpet in my ball gown. So, this was an arms factory I'd heard so many
stories about at college - more like a palace. There was even a swimming pool
for the overseers!
The tour Marcus was taking me on was lasting an eternity. There was a museum of
missiles and stuff, a boardroom with paintings showing generations of
Bowen-Barnes, even luxury living quarters just for any Bowen-Barnes who may
visit at any time. "Marcus, this is boring. Can we look at some slaves? You do
have slaves here, don't you?" He grinned running a hand through his wavy blond
hair, "Yes, about 2,500. Patience, my dear. The factory is ready for us, but
Bowen-Barnes like to keep them waiting. After all, we are in charge".
"Some of us are." It was Lady Evelyn, Marcus's younger sister. She had an aura
about her all right, and it served her well when her family possessed Aristoc
last year and Evelyn took over as CEO. She had huge plans for that place.
Branding itself as a nicer environment for slaves, Aristoc traditionally
marketed itself as a caring sharing organisation. With 100% conscript labour and
no life slaves, the men were relatively happy to do their two years there. All
slaves wore shorts and t-shirts and after the first year, were allowed a stool
to sit on and work. There were no chains and no HM overseers, only civilians who
carried canes and not whips. Piped music even filled the air. After a hard day's
work, the men were locked in cells, which weren't exactly the Hilton, but were
OK. Well, that was then. Within an hour of Evelyn's first ever visit to Aristoc
with her mother, the slaves were stripped naked and leaded whips swung. Any
civilian who refused a whip was fired on the spot. The stool were burned. The
sound of piped music was soon replaced by clinking of permanent welded chains
and HM overseers' leaded whips. Sales of Aristoc's dresses increased and within
two months, profits soared by 50%. Lady Evelyn was nominated for several
Entrepreneur awards.
So, here I was in an elevator with Sir Marcus and Lady Evelyn, both clutching
whips. We were heading down, deep underground. As the elevator glided to a halt,
the doors opened. The noise of the factory hit me first followed by the smell of
grease and hard work, suffering. It was a huge different world, as big as four
football pitches. The air conditioned opulence, the carpets, flowers,
chandeliers and oil paintings of moments ago became grey concrete and girders.
Over a partition between us and the factory floor, I could see the high concrete
ceiling, its array of pipes and then thousands of steel chains, hanging down as
far as I could see, all moving like trees in the breeze - a beautiful sight
until I realised each pair of chains must contain one slave's wrists.
A siren blasted followed by an announcement from a prim sounding Scottish female
voice, it was the smiling receptionist upstairs.
"ALL SLAVES STOP WORK."
"ALL MACHINE SLAVES SWITCH OFF YOUR MACHINES."
The banging and whirring of machines stopped followed by the clinking of chains.
Then, silence.
"ALL SLAVES FACE THE CENTRE AISLE."
We walked round the partition. The factory before us was divided by a central
aisle 300 yards long. Each side was packed with machines and slaves, thousands
of them. The long chains I saw were indeed wrist chains, with another two floor
mounted ankle chains per slave. At sight of us, every slave became rigid.
"SIR MARCUS AND LADY EVELYN BOWEN-BARNES APPROACHING. STAND TO ATTENTION
SLAVES!"
Wow, the noise of chains was back as 2,500 naked slaves put hands on heads and
stood with their legs regulation 3 feet apart. The silence was shattered by an
overseer's shout, "Stand still", and a whip cracked next to us. Evelyn and
Marcus shared a joke as they strolled down the centre aisle. The slaves just
feet away either side of us were fully stood to attention, chins up, eyes fixed
ahead, legs spread. Whilst Marcus and Evelyn, clearly used to all this, had
noses in the air not looking at the slaves, I couldn't take my eyes off them,
their genitals so exposed and vulnerable. I remembered one of Marcus's many
stories about this factory. Apparently, Evelyn was staying at the British
Aerospace Bowen-Barnes residence one weekend after a premiere and took her
showbiz friends on a late-night factory tour. The slaves were called to
attention and the Lady Evelyn entourage strolled down the centre aisle. About
two-thirds down, one machine slave chained next to the aisle was sporting an
erection. He whimpered in terror as Lady Evelyn approached and smashed her knee
into his exposed balls. He was given five more years, probably stood before us
at that very moment going over that fateful evening in his mind. No wonder these
slaves today looked terrified, especially those chained next to the aisle in
full view of the passing Bowen-Barnes. Any Upper Family member can increase a
slave's sentence for any reason.
Reaching the end of the aisle, we entered a raised and very plush viewing
lounge. As we sat down in huge chairs, the receptionist's voice sounded again,
this time with more force.
"GET BACK TO WORK SLAVES!"
Those chains were giving me a headache. The huge machine noise restarted albeit
muffled by the glass. A very smart and handsome slave stood to attention nearby
as we watched over the factory.
"Whisky, slave"
"Yes, Sir"
"Martini, slave"
"Yes, Ma'am"
The slave hesitated, would I order? He wasn't allowed to speak first.
"Jenny?"
"Whisky for me"
"Yes Ma'am"
The well-trained slave passed the drinks over with a "Sir" and a "Ma'am". So,
this was the life of an Upper Family? Drinking and watching their slaves?
"Well, Jenny", Evelyn began, "Welcome to our viewing area for guests,
dignitaries, customers and, most of all, us. Not only do we get a good view of
our slaves, they can see us in our accustomed environment, and know who they are
working for."
"How the other half live, ha ha", Marcus finished.
I shifted in my seat. I'm very pro-slavery, but I respect hard-working slaves
serving their country. To flaunt one's superiority just to keep slaves in their
place seemed just an Upper Family sport to me. It didn't stop there. Not by a
long way.
"Shall we Double, Evelyn?"
"Thought you'd never ask, Marcus"
I was confused. Marcus shouted at the slave. "Five minutes to Double Speed, boy"
"Yes, sir" and the slave ran off. Seconds later, the receptionists voice again:
"LADIES, FIVE MINUTES TO DOUBLE SPEED PLEASE"
Secretaries and ladies from upstairs appeared at the factory floor, all holding
whips. Overseers, presumably on breaks, reappeared. Wow, there must have been
300 ladies out there now strategically and equally positioned amongst the rows
of machine slaves. Marcus, glanced at his watch and clinked glasses with Evelyn
as the voice came again.
"SLAVES, DOUBLE SPEED"
Instantly, lights flashed on each machine and the whips started.
Evelyn squealed, she had to shout now over the racket, "I saw Ben Hur when I was
seven, and it gave me an idea, ha ha. So, we had this system installed. Lights
flash if a slave's work falls behind a pre-programmed speed. This alerts his
overseer who takes umm action. When we Double Speed, at the press of a button
every slave's target speed is doubled. They will work faster, have to, some
fitter younger slaves even reach the Double Speed briefly, but all get a good
whipping. It impresses guests. Good fun for us too."
The slaves were working at an amazing speed it must be said. The noise was now
deafening. Evelyn, unable to contain herself, threw her Martini glass on the
carpet, and went back out with her whip. Marcus and I settled back with another
drink. Now, Marcus's parents and other sister, Lady Christina, were approaching
down the centre aisle. There was no calling the slaves to attention now. This
was Double Speed time. After fifteen minutes, I wasn't surprised to see many
slaves lying on the floor, beaten by Marcus and Evelyn's cruel system.
"For fuck sake, look at that stupid old slave. He's got 45 minutes yet"
"Language, Christina"
Christina was an up and coming tennis star and so wasn't a Director of the
Bowen-Barnes Empire, not yet. Nevertheless, she too ran out with a whip after 20
minutes making a beeline for her "stupid old slave", who was probably well into
his 50's. Marcus's parents followed and I could see all four of them joining in
the torment as more and more slaves doubled over in agony. The slave nearest to
our viewing lounge was working on his knees clinging to his machine to keep
upright. His neighbour, the "stupid old slave", was bent over his machine
semi-conscious as his overseer beat his back with a cattle prod. Christina was
livid, her patent boot working overtime on his scrotum. She sure was fit. On
fifty minutes, the slave on his knees was still working, an amazing effort. Why
place such a young strong teenage slave next to a man over thirty years older?
The rest of his production line was prostate or so slow to be noticeable. The
parts slid of his machine and piled up on his motionless neighbour's. Without
any encouragement, he was back on his feet. He looked up and caught my eye, just
as I took another sip from my glass. I gave him a nod of approval. Me sitting in
air-conditioned splendour. Him chained to a living hell. Were his sad eyes
pleading or wishing we could swap places? His whole face said, "What had he done
to deserve this? Why couldn't he have been born a girl like me or a member of an
Upper Family like Marcus?"
"SLAVES, BACK TO NORMAL SPEED"
"THANK YOU LADIES"
The bizarre show was over. Slaves were picked up, whipped, poked with cattle
prods and working again. The Bowen-Barnes, except Christina who was still
"dealing with" a slave rolled into a foetal position, were back in the viewing
lounge, more drinks, quite tired themselves after their own exertions. Now, it
was time for a family walkabout around the factory to which I was invited. This
is what I would absolutely hate about being a slave. Working away, naked and
chained, whipped back and bruised balls on display 24/7. Then this family with
unimaginable privileges and freedom, not to mention money from your suffering,
stroll past and you are utterly at their mercy. Most slaves are lucky, the
Bowen-Barnes pass by and get a good view of your back, scarred for life, thanks
to them. Some slaves get quizzed by usually Christina or Evelyn. One slave,
still exhausted from the Double Speed, stopped to steady himself just as
Christina walked past. Then, as he bent over to pick up a part, his bloated
bruised balls poked through his legs - two dark blue tennis balls! Christina's
boot met his balls with a splat. In a chilling testament to his training,
discipline and fear, he struggled back up and returned to work probably unaware
who had even kicked him.
Marcus and I veered off for our own factory tour. The slaves, all with long
chains attached to their wrists and ankles, worked on obediently as we walked
past. Marcus's approach had them working with even more effort despite the
obvious pain they felt from the Double Speed beatings they had endured. So, it
was surprising, totally unbelievable in fact in the presence of a powerful Upper
Family member, to see one slave stop work and look towards us. It was John! Our
eyes met for a second before his face froze in agony - and I heard the whip
slash into his poor scarred back. Poor John! I thought he'd surely have been
released by then. Three years chained in there! But, until the war was
definitely over, the slaves remained in factories. Like all of the slaves, he
was all skin and bone. He'd aged about ten years. His back was already scarred
when I met him but was now red raw with deep red gouges running diagonally from
his shoulders to his arse. I visibly winced upon noticing his testicles. They
were dark purple, his scrotum shinily stretching over testicles which were huge.
No wonder they worked so hard there - a kick in those balls would spell days of
sheer agony. I remember John played in the same football team as Marcus. They
were quite similar then. Now, as Marcus strutted past John, I saw a young strong
successful man and a slave beaten by the system. They were world's apart now. I
know slaves have to do their duty and it's the best system, but ouch, it must be
hell.
Later that evening, back at the Bowen-Barnes villa, they gave me quite a
grilling about the day. They questioned my views of the British Class system.
For the record, I think Upper Families do a good job maintaining our prosperity
and have respect for them. I am also not against showing some cruelty towards
life slaves and political prisoners. However, conscript slaves, men like John,
don't deserve the permanent disfigurements that many Bowen-Barnes' slaves will
suffer. Marcus showed me photos of Bowen-Barnes' conscripts slaves with lost
testicles, fingers missing in machinery, a man blinded in one eye by Marcus's
own leaded whip, young slaves who died in chains from heart attacks and five
18-year old conscripts who last year had committed suicide by hanging themselves
from their own wrist chains - lack of moral fibre added Marcus's mother. Sorry,
but I am a woman with female instincts and cannot help but feel appalled by
these boys' suffering. That was it for the Bowen-Barnes. I had no future with
their son. We never met again.
++++
Wow, that was some daydream. I still miss Marcus. We had some great times and
with him I soon got accustomed to a life of leisure. Unfortunately, I never got
over that malaise which is why I am in this mess now. This morning, I've been
summoned to the Department of Works for being unemployed for over six months.
The reception area could only be described as functional with, as already
mentioned, rows of women waiting to speak to an official. There were one or two
men; the official statistics for June 2020 told why:
Unemployment: 453,954
Male percentage: 12.3%
Female percentage: 87.7%
It was hard to get a job. Britain's huge manufacturing economy didn't have room
for creative types like me. Even with a degree, I'd ended up in John Lewis, the
Department Store, before being made redundant towards the end of last year.
There's no social welfare in Britain, of course. The unemployed are known as
social parasites and I wasn't looking forward at all to my 10 o'clock
appointment with Mrs Catherine Bligh - Employment and Labour Officer. Her door
creaked opened and a chubby balding man in his fifties walked out holding some
leaflets. He dithered in the doorway staring at his leaflets before a smart
lady, half his age, in a blue dress suit appeared:
"Mr Parson, I said the New Slaves Officer is expecting you. Now, please report
to her. Now."
She placed her hand in the small of his back guiding the dazed man a few doors
along. With her heels, she was easily taller than him which only made him a more
pathetic sight.
"Miss Atherton?"
Wow, that was quick. Mrs Bligh's office was great with leather armchairs, a huge
oak desk and a great view over the city. She was obviously a high-flying sort
going places with her perfect grooming, above-the-knee dress suit,
flesh-coloured tights and black heels. It's well-known that women like this
receive huge bonuses from people like the Bowen-Barnes for sending unemployed
men into slavery for the minimum two years. Judging by Mr Parson's reaction,
she'd just earned some more. On the wall above her desk was a poster of a slave
in what looked like a clothing factory. Just like John, he was chained by all
fours but sewing stockings together. The position of an overseer behind him and
his expression left you in no doubt he'd just been whipped. The caption read:
Don't want a job? Neither did he.
Well, rich bitch, unless your rules have changed dramatically, I won't be sewing
any of your posh seamed tights. I sat down in a chair looking smug.
She was surprisingly friendly, interested in my past jobs and even my hobbies. I
decided a few mind games were in order. When asked why I wasn't married, I
mentioned John and his long spell as a slave. Of course, her husband had been an
officer in the army. I might've known. She noted that I'd done the whip course
at school and occasionally oversaw slaves working in John Lewis. I wasn't sure
where this was all going and almost laughed out loud when she suggested I become
an overseer.
I didn't have a choice. Conscription did exist for women as well although not in
the horrific conditions which men had to endure. Women could be conscripted into
admin or even factory jobs but they'd have normal lives outside of work.
"It's your choice, Miss Atherton. Do forty hours a week sitting at a sewing
machine or consider my offer to do two years as an overseer."
Now, it's not much of a choice is it? But I forgot to mention that I am the
laziest person I know. Sewing stockings from 8 to 6 five days a week! That
wouldn't do at all.
"Count yourself lucky, Miss Atherton. That social parasite who just left will be
doing it for 126 hours a week for two years, if he survives."
Wow. Poor man. I didn't fancy his chances against the likes of Lady Catharina
Bowen-Barnes.
"Where do I sign?"
So, that was it. Me, an overseer. A week later a formal letter arrived telling
me where to report. Wow, only a week of "freedom" left and I had to get 3
uniforms made first!
The uniform list was huge! Boots, shorts, shirts, pullovers, cap, gloves and the
long coat. It'd take ages to tailor it all I thought, but slavery has its uses
and I was kitted out the next day. Although I still had four days before
reporting to the camp, I thought I'd have some fun with my new uniform. The cap
made me look like an old Nazi with its peak pulled over my eyes. I looked mean
which I guess was the idea. The shirt and pullover padded out my shoulders and I
looked huge! The shorts! Oh boy the shorts! Overseers wear shorts, with the
black tights of course, for ease of movement (a euphemism for kicking and
kneeing). But I never knew they were so short! I am quite conscious of my thighs
and they were nearly on full display. Finally, I pulled on the black leather
boots and checked the mirror. I looked great.
Didn't someone once say absolute power corrupts, or something? Well, it happened
soon with me. I was soon out of the house and in the shopping mall. My heels
clicked so loudly on the marble floors and oh god I caught sight of my thighs in
a shop window..mm not so bad.
On the way home, two naked slaves were repairing a gas main. It was bitterly
cold and a long chain from a lamppost to their necks kept them from escaping
whilst their overseers sat in the car. The sound and sight of me approaching
with a whip had the desired effect. Both slaves carried on with their digging
with an added vigour.
"Work faster, slaves!"
"Yes Ma'am"
"Yes Ma'am"
I was going to enjoy this.
It was an early start. The train to camp EM3 left at 7am and a few other trainee
overseers joined me at the station. We were freezing in our shorts, but looked
great. Men stared but no wolf whistles. Force of habit I guess. On the train, we
were invited to First Class and the free coffee warmed us up. A man opposite was
reading the Financial Times. I could see a picture of a nice-looking guy in a
suit. It was Marcus! The headline read.
Expanded British Aerospace 2 opens next month
Camp EM3 to supply initial overseers
I was really going to enjoy this.
