Sarah Joyce
Training Manager
HM Conscription Training Centre South-West 2 (SW2)
Wednesday 28th April 2020 2.30pm
It feels odd to be in this huge new factory alone. This time next week of course
it will be very different. 200 out of our 250 slaves will be sent here. The
other 500 or so will come from SW1, SW3 and long-term slave prisons. Whilst the
long-term slaves such as escapees and political prisoners deserve long sentences
in such places, I'm dreading next Thursday when I inform our innocent conscripts
where they're going. It's not easy when an 18-year old conscript standing to
attention before my desk learns he'll spend 21 months minimum chained to a
machine in an arms factory, every slave's fear.
This new arms factory is long overdue. During the skirmishes at our northern
oilfields last year, I visited the existing plant next door. Despite all slaves
working 20 hours a day, the factoy's output was way behind schedule. Extra
overseers and Civil Defence were brought in. Non-direct employees such as
secretaries, marketing and PR staff were diverted to overseeing slaves, being
paid a commission for their slaves' work. It was a dreadful sight. The slaves
were dropping like flies but there were no replacements. The overseers, working
impossibly long 10-hour shifts were under huge pressure and showed no mercy. As
I walked through that cacaphony of machines and cracking whips, I saw a slave
lying unconscious by his machine. Whilst the slaves nearby all stood to
attention, presumably their orders when production stops, a young Asian woman,
no doubt a PR lady who'd look more at home wooing customers at cocktail parties
with her curvy legs, stylish above the knee suit and heels, was yelling and
kicking his ribs repeatedly before stepping back to use her whip. As the blows
rained down on his red back, an overweight overseer, her thighs bulging out of
her black army shorts sat nearby, watching on, smiling and smoking. Uncrossing
her legs to stub out her cigarette, she came over to help. "On your feet", she
roared to the motionless slave. With her boot, she jerked the his ankle chain
sending him flying onto his back with his legs wide apart. The "PR lady" stepped
between his open legs, grinned at the overseer before driving her highly
polished toecap twice into his exposed testicles. He groaned in pain but hardly
moved. Finally the overseer's electric cattle prod soon had the poor slave back
on his feet, clearly in agony. With that section's production resuming, the
overseer and "PR lady" sat back down. I approached the young slave who promptly
turned and snapped to attention:
"How long are you in for, slave?" I demanded to satisfy the two women, still
sitting comfortably in their armchairs, the "PR lady" wiping her shoes with a
handkerchief.
"Three years, Ma'am." He was sobbing in pain and terror.
"When are you due for release, slave?"
"November 2022, Ma'am"
He'd only been there about three months!
"Where did you do basic, slave?"
"SW2 Ma'am, with you, Ma'am"
"I see. Get on with your work, slave!"
"Yes, Ma'am. Thank you, Ma'am"
He waited a second for the usual knee in the balls, which didn't come, before
restarting his machine. My God! I usually recognise our old slaves but that
place had changed him totally. As I stepped back, watching him painfully work, I
noticed what looked like cigarette burns on his lower back. The overseer was on
her feet again walking along the rows of slaves. Clutching a new cigarette in
one hand, whip in the other, her thighs rubbing together, calves sticking out
the top of her boots. It'd do her good to spend a few days as a slave.
Meanwhile, the PR woman sat, legs crossed, laughing into her mobile phone. A
slave knelt before her polishing her shoes.
Although things have calmed down a lot now, it's always nice to leave that arms
factory. Still, it's nice and peaceful in this new facility. I stop to stand in
front of a shiny new machine. The sound of my heels echo off the grey,
windowless walls. Looking down, I see the familiar ankle shackle which will
imprison one of our slaves for the best part of two years of his young life.
Well, I've always wondered what it's like. Now's my chance. Checking no one is
about and that the slave cameras are off, I squat down to place the shackle
around my own ankle. It's greasy and feels cold, even through my tights, which
get smeared with smelly oil. I have a spare set in the car. I stand up taking
one step towards the machine. The factory is suddenly filled with the sound of
the clinking chain. I never knew chains were so heavy. Standing, I look up at
the silent machine lifting up its safety guard, putting it down, lifting my
chained foot and stamping on the pedal. So this is what factory slaves do for 18
hours a day. On both sides of me are long rows of machines. I look back to see a
glassed off area with two easy chairs, a table and a computer. To think, a
progress controller or military overseer, armed with a leaded whip, will sit in
those chairs watching the slaves. I'd also have had my bare back whipped for
just turning round. I wouldn't last a day in here. What must these boys go
through? I lever open the shackle and run.
Composing myself back in the car, the two huge prisons in front of me. One
empty, the other full of boys going through living hell. Taking the box of
tights from my glove compartment, the card inside was in seven different
languages:
Congratulations on choosing Pretty Polly tights. These tights have been
hand-made in our Nottingham factory in England by British slave:
2019/26792AQ
Please use this number in any correspondence.
Below was a photograph of the slave. He was stood to attention, chained by his
ankles and wrists to a table. His testicles were badly swollen but oddly pink,
which suggests the picture was doctored. On his left was the smiling and very
leggy Rebecca van Arsten, Pretty Polly's model. A not so smiley Lady Jane
Hetherington, Pretty Polly's owner, was stood on his right, arms behind her back
failing to conceal her whip. She should be smiling, she's never done a day's
work in her life. She's become a millionaire through slavery. What a ghastly
picture to send around the world.
I only do this job as I thought I could get my own two sons an easy job when
their time comes. They're short-sighted, absolutely no chance of getting into
the army. Slave's jobs are getting harder every year. More factories are
opening. Foreign companies are coming here or buying British products. Our
economy is booming but at what cost? My sons are a year apart so both will be
away, and I won't even be told where. When I lie in bed at night, I run my hand
over my husband's back, so smooth and so very lucky to have missed slavery. Last
year, my brother-in-law John, Michael's younger brother stayed with us at our
Chalet in Provence. In that hot summer, I wore a bikini, Michael went topless
but John, being self-conscious about his scars, kept his t-shirt on, even twelve
year after slavery.
I'm just glad I have one daughter.
